


Such a Bizarre Concept

by jacanas



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Swap, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:29:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 47,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacanas/pseuds/jacanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal saw the moment when Will was no longer Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following prompt: 
> 
> For some strange reason Hugh Dancy finds himself in place of the character he plays (full body swap, i.e. he doesn't have the bullet scar, etc). Humor is fine, but I'd like to see something serious as well. No slash please!
> 
> Title is my out-loud response, so I decided, why not!

Hannibal saw the moment when Will was no longer Will.   
  
It occurred from one blink to the next. They were sitting at his dining table, himself, Alana and Will, sharing honest to goodness pig from the very corpse of the slaughtered animal. Will looked down at his meal, fingers tense from the effort of forcing them not to shake. Hannibal found his resistance charming. He knew he had Alana's presence to thank for the other man's diligence.   
  
Will speared a section of roasted suckling pig, blinked, and froze. There was no sudden intake of breath or tremble to signify the change. Instead, the man ceased movement entirely and stared down at the meat before him.   
  
He took a deep breath, blinked a second time, and flickered his eyes up toward the two adults sitting across from him. He met both of their eyes and held them, briefly, before dropping his own down again to the meal in front of him. His fingers twitched; he glanced to his sides, lingering in the direction of the kitchen door as though waiting for someone else to appear.   
  
"That neither of you is the killer she's writing about," Alana said, and Will's eyes flickered up to stare into hers. She paused, caught off-guard by Will's sudden direct gaze, before continuing with, "but together you might be."   
  
"Freddie Lounds must consider you a bland interview subject," Hannibal said, "if she's already resorted to fiction." Will's eyes, the same eyes Hannibal had seen glazed or cloudy so many times, were bright with attention and alarm.   
  
Will's eyes, but not Will's eyes. The profiler glanced again to Alana, then set his silverware down and pushed back from the table with a sudden, half-whispered "Excuse me." He stepped away from them and disappeared from the room with an assertive gait, back ramrod straight and drawn to his full height. The change in countenance was startling, and not lost on either of the two left in his wake.   
  
Alana looked at Hannibal with both eyebrows raised, suspicions beginning to stretch the lines around her eyes. Hannibal, ever the gracious host, smiled and sipped his wine. The conversation veered to safer subjects, although Alana continually glanced at Will's empty chair. The distraction was proving too great, and while before Hannibal could have simply begged forgiveness and seen her out, now he was obliged to explain to his lover why she needed to leave before his patient.   
  
It was convenient that Will had taken him as an official psychiatrist, as cover was easily granted by honesty.   
  
"My apologies, Alana," Hannibal said with a wan smile. "It appears that my patient was not prepared for an encounter with the two of us."   
  
Alana's expression immediately softened - the explanation was obvious. The issue was sitting in her very seat, the woman who Will had made very clear advances to, and who had returned some of those advances with her own. She set her wine glass down and nodded.   
  
"You should see to him," she said, and pushed her chair back. "I'll see myself out, if that's alright?"   
  
"Of course." Hannibal stood as she rose and followed her to the door regardless, offering her coat and helping her slip the garment over her elbows. She kissed him and whispered, "save me some for later." She left, and he gently closed the door behind her. He watched through the window until the lights of her car were gone from view, then turned and trekked through the house toward the nearest washroom.   
  
He found the door locked, and knocked twice to announce himself.   
  
"Will?" He knocked again. "Alana has gone for the night."   
  
Nothing. He could hear shuffling inside, the sound of running water and a towel being brushed against stubble. The door unlocked and Will paused when he saw Hannibal outside. He blinked and creased his brow, then looked to the side. His shoulders were once again down, eyes vaguely hazy. He did not meet Hannibal's eyes, instead ducking his head around the corner of the door to look to the side.   
  
"Alana left?" he asked, and stepped out of the room. Hannibal backed away and moved to follow him. The stroll was exactly correct, the posture somewhat defensive. Will moved in the direction of the dining room with precision.   
  
"Where did you go before, Will?" Hannibal watched the way those shoulders bunched in outward tension, the only tell in an otherwise impeccable performance. The two men sat at the table again, and Hannibal took a bite of his dish. Will left the utensils alone, instead choosing to lean back against the chair behind him and drum his fingers on the table, once, in rapid succession.   
  
"I didn't dissociate," he said after several long moments of consideration. "I was present the whole time. Just," his eyes flickered to Alana's empty seat, and he fell silent. Hannibal gestured to Will's plate, a silent command to recommence eating. Will blinked down at the dish and set his jaw.   
  
"I should go," he said absently without moving to stand. Again, Hannibal could see cracks in the construct. Eye contact held seconds longer than usual - an awareness of his surroundings not usually present - a confidence where normally stubborn resistance resided. It was not that this version was better, or stronger; for all intents and purposes he was an exact replica of the original Will. It was simply that Will was not entirely himself, and Hannibal had grown to know the man well enough to see the differences, subtle though they were.   
  
And there was one sign which lacked any subtlety, which had in fact been Hannibal's immediate clue: Will no longer smelled like himself. The pervasive odor of canine, forestry, fish and unease was replaced by a pleasing cologne, a woman's perfume and, ever so faintly, the smell of baby powder. The perfume and powder were hinted at more than pervasive, but their presence was enough of an alert for Hannibal to take note.   
  
Will-not-Will stood from the table, settled his palms on either side of the dish in front of him, and hesitated. "Thank you for dinner," he murmured, "another time." It was a retreat, a blatant one, and Hannibal was tempted to call the man's bluff and force him to sit and explain his sudden oddities.   
  
Will left the room, and Hannibal let him. 

 

* * *

  
  
There were bad days, and there were terrible days, and there was whatever the hell this was. Ockham's razor demanded one single explanation for what was happening: a mind-blowingly detailed dream involving the cast of characters he spent half of his year immersing himself inside of.   
  
The only clear solution was to stay in character, since the dream seemed intent on insisting that everyone else do the same. He checked both pockets – keys right, phone right, wallet right, knife left. Knife? Yes, knife – a switchblade. He decided to think about that later. He fished inside of his pocket and pulled out his wallet, staring at the picture and, more importantly, the address. He pulled the phone out next and tried to find any sort of GPS capabilities. He put both away and resolved to find a gas station to help in his quest for Wolf Trap, Virginia.   
  
At least he knew a general location.   
  
“Strange dream,” he muttered as he climbed into his car. It felt real, present – he could feel the cold of the leather pressing through his clothes, the rumble of the engine as he turned the key. The radio was silent, an old combination tape deck and CD player which had probably never seen a disc.  
  
As he pulled away from the cannibal serial killer’s house, he had to admit that if he must dream about the show, at least it was a quiet, boring sort of dream.


	2. Chapter 2

“Before Mason,” he muttered to himself as he drove. “After Margo. After Randall.”   
  
Not entirely after Margo, but at least he didn't have to anticipate a visit from her tonight. He pulled into a gas station and asked for a set of maps showing him the way to Wolf Trap. The attendant, a young, tired-looking man, marked their location and handed him the maps without question or comment. Based on the bags under his eyes, he was undoubtedly a college student taking advantage of the night shift while studying during the day.   
  
Hugh -  _no, in character, Will_  - handed him a twenty and told him to buy a proper meal, in honor of a common history. He well remembered long nights flanked by longer days, and wished the boy luck in his studies.   
  
The attendant seemed cheered by the spontaneous kindness. Will was glad to brighten up one moment of this dreary, oppressive dream.   
  
The car was already chilly when he sat on the seat, and he blew on his fingers to warm them before touching the cold wheel. He took a few minutes to familiarize himself with the map layouts and began tracing a finger against the matte paper. It was a shame that no one had thought to write a GPS system into his car. He would remember to suggest it later. 

* * *

  
  
Hannibal packed the entire meal into several containers while he pondered over several options. It was possible, and more likely, that this Will was not a replacement, but the original Will simply broken and remade beyond a certain point of repair. Hannibal could have accepted this as the most logical explanation, save for the abrupt change in scent. There was no human being he knew the scent of more intimately than Will Graham, and despite his eyes, ears and intellect insisting that his suspicions could not possibly be true, his baser instincts refused to let go of an unmitigated fact: the man who left his home tonight was not his friend Will Graham.   
  
Therefore, a curious event had occurred right here at his dinner table, and Hannibal could either investigate or let well enough alone. Both options had merit; if he left this apparent doppelganger to his fate, Hannibal could gain copious entertainment from watching him try to exist as profiler and empath Will Graham. The first interaction with Jack would surely be enough to justify this course of action.   
  
And yet, there remained the fact that his Will was gone, replaced by a carbon copy who moved and breathed in an entirely different manner, despite looking and speaking as Will Graham. With a welling feeling he could not name, Hannibal was forced to consider the possibility that his Will was entirely gone, and that this new Will was the only man left for Hannibal to interact with. The thought upset him more than it should - he had allowed himself to become deeply attached, a weakness he held in contempt.   
  
The damage was done, regardless of his attempts to rationalize. Hannibal packed a woven basket full of morsels from the evening’s meal, and slid a bottle of fine wine into the corner. The corked top poked out at an angle and prevented the basket from fully closing.   
  
He stepped outside, locked his door behind him, and began the long journey to Wolf Trap, Virginia. 

* * *

  
  
He thought back as he pulled onto the highway, drilling himself again on the appropriate sequence of events. No one was supposed to come tonight, if he remembered correctly, which meant he could go straight to bed and anticipate waking up in a different life tomorrow. This dream was both detailed and boring, granting him such splendid sights as Virginia in the pitch black and the long car ride from Baltimore into the countryside of Wolf Trap. He tried the radio a few times, finding mostly static and televangelists, and rummaged through the glove compartment in search of some form of entertainment.   
  
He gave up after he pulled out the fifteenth gas receipt, and slammed the compartment closed. 

  
He stopped at a gas station once he was in the general vicinity he needed, and the man at the counter pointed him a mere five minutes away. He thanked the attendant and ignored the vaguely confused look the man gave him, chalking it up to having a customer he recognized ask for directions to his own house. At least he wasn't ruining his own reputation; it was just the sort of action Will Graham would be known for.   
  
Entering the farmhouse was a disaster. The collective canine confusion in the presence of a human who looked but did not smell like their human threw the more loyal dogs into a frenzy of panicked barking.   
  
“Oh, come on,” he groused at the lot of them. “Aren't I close enough?”   
  
The grumpy tone of voice was enough for two of the smaller ones, who began to clamber over his feet for attention. One of the larger ones approached next, followed by all of the rest save one. Winston pawed at the door, letting out a forlorn whine, and he opened the door to let them all out into the night. As he opened the door he saw a set of headlights bouncing along the drive, and wracked his brain for the timeline. He was absolutely certain that no one was supposed to come tonight - Freddie was tomorrow, Margo was done with him, Mason was after…  
  
“Great,” he muttered as a tall suited figure stepped from the expensive vehicle. His visitor opened the back seat and removed a picnic basket; the dogs crowded him, begging for treats, and the man shooed them away with an absently waving hand.   
  
He stopped just before the porch, directly in Will’s line of sight, and the two men eyed each other before Hannibal nodded, once, and passed him by to enter the house.   
  
He sighed.  _My name is Will Graham_ , he reminded himself, and turned to enter behind. 

* * *

  
  
Hannibal set the food on Will’s table with no flourish, instead observing the profiler’s movements through the kitchen. There was an uncertainty to his gestures, and he opened more than one cupboard in the futile attempt to find his own wine glasses. Will was not as fond of wine as Hannibal, which easily explained the struggle save for the fact that the same difficulties persisted through retrieving silverware, place mats and napkins. By the time it was all done, Hannibal had heated the pork over the stove top, and served them both a healthy plateful. He set two plates on the table, both heaping with reheated cuisine, and sat across from Will’s usual place.   
  
Will remained standing, staring at the plate with a sort of dawning horror. He blinked, centered himself and opened his eyes again, slipping the mask of normalcy back into place with some effort. Hannibal cut a piece of pork and slid it into his mouth, and Will left the room a moment later.   
  
Hannibal set his silverware down and stood to follow, finding Will at the door watching the dogs play.   
  
“Call to them,” Hannibal said. Will considered him, a long, thoughtful pause, then turned and cupped a hand around his mouth.   
  
“Buster, Winston,” he called. “Come on, guys.” He whistled, and that drew the pack in. Every action was carefully crafted to create the impression of Will Graham, and yet an essential spark was missing.   
  
Hannibal folded his arms across his chest and vaguely pursed his lips.   
  
“You don’t know the rest of their names, do you?”   
  
Will shrugged one shoulder and blinked lazily, for all appearances taking this as a strange joke. Hannibal flared with danger, and barely resisted the urge to seize the man and shake him.   
  
“This will be better for both of us if you are honest,” Hannibal said. Will-not-Will tilted his eyes look at him from the corners, nostrils flaring. He crossed his arms and took a deep breath, which he released before speaking again.   
  
“My name is Will Graham,” he murmured, and Hannibal could not believe him.


	3. Chapter 3

It was disconcerting to be in Hannibal's presence for an extended period of time. In reality, none of the actors were method, which led to constant shifts in and out of character. There was always a hint of the real person behind the facade, and a certain lightheartedness which reassured everyone that no matter how dark the scene they were playing was, the underlying actors remained unfazed.  
  
Right now there was no one else present. Will looked at Hannibal, Hannibal looked at him, and all that he could see were two reptilian eyes, black in the night, watching him for the chinks in his armor. He felt that unwavering stare as he moved uncertainly through the kitchen he didn't actually know. He felt it as he called to the two dogs he did know, and whistled for the rest. He felt it when the man warned him, in a less than subtle tone, that he was standing on dangerous ground.   
  
Will wondered if Hannibal ever blinked, and what he saw behind closed eyes that he wanted to avoid so much.   
  
“My name is Will Graham,” he said, and he could feel that the man at his side did not believe him.   
  
“It’s a bad night,” he said by way of explanation. “I felt like I woke up somewhere else, back at the dinner table. In someone else’s nightmare.” He kept his voice gruff and downtrodden; nothing strange here. Just a man still pining for a woman he couldn’t have.   
  
“Surely the pork was not that bad?”   
  
Will laughed, once, loudly, and fisted his hand to beat against the center of his chest. Pork. Right.   
  
“It wasn’t the, the pork,” he said. Hannibal’s eyes snapped to attention in the way others used their entire body, a sudden sharp perception which pinned him in place. Dammit. No one stuttered here, not ever - not even killers lying on the floor in their own blood. No one except Peter. And even if Peter was an analog for Will Graham, Will himself had not stuttered in quite some time.   
  
Will ran both hands over his face, going all-in. If he was going to be a strange, broken version of himself, he might as well revert to the most broken version he knew.   
  
“I felt like before.” He sighed once his hands were clear of his mouth. “Can encephalitis recur?”   
  
Hannibal looked out to the dogs, who hadn’t entered the house at their master’s calling. Winston remained close and eyed Will with a sort of detached wariness.   
  
“It can,” Hannibal said. “If you’ll let me take a blood sample, I can check for you.”   
  
“Sure,” Will said. What did it matter? He would wake up in the morning and describe the most detailed dream he ever had, if he remembered it. When he looked at Hannibal, he saw vague signs of surprise: an eyebrow slightly raised, nostrils slightly flared. The doctor nodded and left the porch to approach his car, and Will sighed. Doctor - right. Of course he already had the supplies.   
  


* * *

  
  
Hannibal called the dogs in as he returned, and the two men sat at the kitchen table. He prepared the plastic vials and tied a rubber tubing around Will’s upper arm, then instructed Will to make a fist. He swabbed the spot with alcohol, took up the needle, and slid it into one raised vein with deft fingers. He slotted the first vial into place while Will looked everywhere but at the needle.   
  
Another crack. His Will did not trust him enough not to watch every action he took on the other man’s person.   
  
This was not the first time he had drawn blood from the profiler, but it was the first time that Will consciously let him do it while knowing exactly who Hannibal was. There was no doubt that this man knew what he was dealing with; the sidelong glances and constant awareness of Hannibal’s position gave away the alertness he felt in the killer’s presence. Hannibal took three vials: one for testing for the disease, one for a different kind of testing, and one for flavoring a meat sauce he would be making tomorrow. Waste not.   
  
He suspected that his Will would not have allowed this so easily, but with Will’s recent actions, it was hard to be certain. He chalked the decision as a possible sign, and stored it away for later analysis.   
  
“Finished,” he said as he popped the third vial free. He pressed a cotton swab over the needle and slid it from Will’s vein. “Apply pressure here, and I will have the results within two days.”   
  
“Why three vials?” Will asked as he met Hannibal’s eyes, and it was abruptly clear that this man  _knew_. He didn’t want to ask about the vials, not really. He wanted to ask what was going to be done with them.   
  
Hannibal paused, considering. His Will had yet to indicate that he clearly knew just how much of Hannibal’s cuisine was the actual indicated meat.   
  
And so he blinked. The fact that it was deliberate did not make it less unnerving. Will looked away and shifted his jaw, finally raising a hand to wipe it over his mouth, hiding a smile behind a cough. Hannibal leaned back in his chair with both eyebrows raised.   
  
Will-not-Will knew. He knew, and for some reason the thought amused him.   
  
Despite himself, and despite missing his friend, Hannibal found himself intrigued.   
  
Hannibal packed away the vials for processing and returned to the meal he’d provided. Will sat across from him and eyed the meat, his mouth a grim, flat line.   
  
All-in. The timeline was irrelevant now - Hannibal wasn’t even supposed to be here.   
  
“Dare I ask who this was?” he asked, spearing a chunk of supposed pork to ensure that his question was correctly interpreted. Hannibal took a delicate bite of the meal, chewing slowly and watching as Will avoided observing the action.   
  
“I believe the pig’s name was Pavlov,” he said, and Will took a sharp breath.   
  
“I told you not to lie to me, Doctor Lecter,” he said. Hannibal tilted his head. It was  _so close_  to his Will. He could nearly believe the act.   
  
“I will not lie to Will Graham,” he said, and Will dropped the fork with a scowl and shoved the plate to the side, out of his way. Hannibal was reminded of their first meal together.   
  
“I know what’s in your freezer,” Will said in that gruff tone he took on when agitated. So close to reality, and yet -  
  
“It’s not sustainable,” Will said, interrupting Hannibal’s thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, gesturing at the table. “This lifestyle - it won’t work for either of us.”   
  
“Surely that is a decision for Will Graham to make,” Hannibal said, and Will scoffed.   
  
“What - I’m not myself? You already played that card, Hannibal.” He glanced at the medical bag, where the vials sat waiting for analysis. “I’m being proactive this time.”   
  
“I have been nothing but honest with you, Will,” Hannibal said. When Will’s eyelids sank lower in another telltale sign of anger, Hannibal added, “of late.”   
  
“How reassuring,” he said, and Hannibal nearly smiled at the tone. This was precisely like Will, the imitation so spot-on that he nearly lost himself to the game before caution reawakened.   
  
“It’s late, you should go,” Will said. He stood from the table, pouring the contents of his plate back into the serving bowls Hannibal had provided. When he began to pack the basket, Hannibal stopped him with a gentle touch on his arm, and the man froze in response.   
  
“Keep it for tomorrow,” Hannibal said, close to his ear. “You will be hungry from not eating tonight.”   
  
“Thank you,” Will said, and shrugged the hand from his elbow. Hannibal offered the dogs conciliatory pats on the head for their distress and showed himself out. Will waited until the taillights were out of sight before dumping the entire meal into the trashcan. He shuddered every time the meat or grease from the meat touched his flesh, and washed his hands for three solid minutes when he was finished cleaning the kitchen.   
  
“Bedtime,” he said to the pack. Four of them had now taken to this new version of their master and crowded him as he searched his drawers for something resembling actual pajamas. He sighed and settled on the more standard boxers and t-shirt, then settled against the mattress. The smell of stale sweat made him wrinkle his nose, and he added “mattress protector” to the list of things to write in later.   
  
He closed his eyes and, after a few hours of restlessness, fell into an uneasy sleep.  
  
When he woke up at eight in the morning in the same position, the first words out of his mouth were, “bloody hell.”


	4. Chapter 4

If his hands were shaking, it was not because he was afraid. Worried, perhaps. Concerned, and stuck in a cycle he could not seem to break. But not afraid.   
  
He looked at the pack of dogs watching him prepare a cup of coffee and realized, he was perhaps a little afraid.   
  
"Alright," he said, "fine. If that's how it is, that's how it is." He set his mug down on the counter, drummed his fingers, then approached the overcoat he'd come in with last night. A quick search in the pockets produced a cell phone, and he began to flip through the numbers inside.   
  
He stopped on Jack's name and nearly pressed  _Send_ , then paused. Jack was on uneven footing, and was less than inclined to believe anything Will had to say that didn't directly involve the pending capture of Hannibal Lecter. He sighed and waited a moment, thinking of who else he could call. Beverly was already gone; Price and Zeller were sidelined, though perhaps that mattered less now. Either way, they had no access to Hannibal's house. Alana had the best chance, but she was completely out of the question.   
  
He needed someone pushy, nosy and fearless. As though summoned by the mere thought, the screen of his phone lit up, and the word UGH came up on the caller ID.   
  
He accepted the call and muttered into the receiver, "Graham."   
  
"That's the first time you've answered my call," Freddie Lounds said. Her voice sounded small and higher pitched. "I was expecting to leave a message."   
  
"Freddie," he said, because he had to be sure that this dream followed some kind of convention.   
  
"Who else? I'm coming over at one, unless you had other plans."  
  
He did not have other plans; she was meant to come over, avoiding a grisly death at Hannibal's hands. Even now, the good doctor was likely sitting in her apartment, traipsed up in his kill suit and twiddling his thumbs as he waited for her return.   
  
"Move it up," he said. "I'm free now."  
  
"You want me to come now?"   
  
All-in, he reminded himself. "Yes. You're in danger, Freddie. You need to come here now."   
  
"Danger from who?" She sounded less afraid than intrigued, and he realized she was considering this an angle she could chase up.   
  
"One guess," he snapped. "Do not go to your place - come  _straight here_ , you understand?"   
  
Freddie said nothing. He could hear her breathing, so he continued with: "And bring everything you've got on Doctor Lecter."   
  
Freddie couldn't resist a story; a man she suspected to be a killer had just invited her to his homestead in the middle of nowhere. She'd taken similar risks, and he fully expected her to take this one as well.   
  
"Alright," she said. "I'm coming straight over now."   
  
"Good." He disconnected the call, punched the back button, and clicked  _Send_. Two rings, and then, "Crawford."   
  
"Jack, it's not going to work," he said.   
  
"Will?"   
  
"Yes. This plan isn't going to work. We need a new one."   
  
A pause. "It was your idea."   
  
"Yeah, yeah I know. This is on record: he took my blood last night."  
  
"Why the hell did you let him do that?" Crawford sounded tense and worried.   
  
"Almost gave myself away," he said. "Had to cover with an encephalitis crack, so he took blood to test for it. He took three vials, in case you find it at a crime scene."  
  
"I'll report it," Jack said. "You got any new ideas for a plan?"   
  
Will looked at his dogs. "I've invited Freddie Lounds over. She's got a lot on him, Jack, more than we've ever gotten. She's a good hound. I intend to use that."   
  
"You want to work with Freddie Lounds?" Will can  _hear_  Jack's scowl of consternation. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"   
  
"Better than this one. This one will get everyone killed." Maybe Will Graham was torn about whose side he wanted to land on, but his doppelganger had no interest in ending up with his guts spilled onto the floor.   
  
"Do you have anything else?" Jack sounded resigned.   
  
"Yes - he brought me dinner. I might have evidence in my bin, right now. Come out here. It'll help me with Freddie if she knows you're in on this."   
  
"I can be there in two hours." It would have to be good enough.   
  
"Thanks," he said, and disconnected the call. 

 

* * *

  
  
Hannibal took the rushed test from the clinic, smiling as he thanked the nurses for their willingness to accommodate his request. He had claimed a broken condom and a worry of imminent infection, and once he provided his own blood sample, the clinic wasted no time in running the full gamut of tests.   
  
A few of the STI assays would take twenty-four to return, but he was not actually interested in any of them. He pulled open the envelope and skimmed the initial findings, pleased to know that the man inhabiting Will Graham's home was not spreading infection while present. His eyes drifted over the page out of old habit, and finally fixed on the immediate, glaring confirmation of his suspicions: this man was the wrong blood type.   
  
Hannibal slid the paper back inside of the envelope and smiled at the nurse, who beamed in response.   
  
"All clear, sir?" she asked, and he nodded. "I'm so glad! I know how scary that can be."   
  
"Indeed," Hannibal said with a smile. "Thank you for your help."   
  
He left the clinic, slid the envelope into the opening between his seat and the gear shift, and turned on the car. 

* * *

  
  
He had moved up the timeline, which in retrospect was probably unnecessary and tempered the time available to him. He entered the barn with a sigh and approached the freezer, opening it to peer at the discarded human body parts scattered throughout the container along with fresh-caught fish and beef for the dogs.   
  
"This was one of your weirder decisions," he berated his alter, and picked up the bottom jaw of Randall Tier.   
  
The texture, even through the plastic, made him shudder. This was no prosthetic, rubbery and gummy and  _fake_. It had weight, frozen solid from the cold, and if he allowed it to thaw would release blood. He dropped it back inside and resolved to just keep Freddie out of the barn, rather than try to move individual body parts and a robotic suit without leaving a trail or attracting unwanted attention, especially if Freddie showed up in the middle of his work.   
  
He locked the barn and went back to the house to wait for her to arrive. 

 

* * *

  
  
When Hannibal arrived, he found two other cars already present. He had parked his car several dozen yards away, hidden at the side of the road, and walked the remaining distance. Upon seeing the two cars, both of which he recognized from previous reconnaissance, he made a strong effort to duck to the side and remain hidden in the foliage.   
  
He approached the house from an odd angle, veered toward the back, and stepped onto the back porch. Will was the type of man who did not believe that anything more threatening than himself would walk through his door, and either the doppelganger was unaware or believed the same: the back door was open, and Hannibal Lecter let himself in without a sound.   
  
He heard a set of voices talking in the kitchen, and twisted himself to stay out of sight. He tilted his head and listened closely to the conversation underway.   
  
“-gail. She’s  _in the house_ , Jack, I’m certain of it.”   
  
“You’re sure?” Not Jack’s voice - a woman’s. Freddie Lounds sounded cautiously hopeful.   
  
“Why would he keep her alive?” Jack asked, ignoring Freddie’s question.   
  
“The same reason he kept Miriam alive - to poke at someone. This time, me. He’s been referencing her, making a lot of noise about how much he regrets that he took her from me. Is that enough of a confession?”   
  
This doppelganger knew quite a lot. Hannibal glanced down at the envelope held in one hand, considering his options. There were three people in the room next door, and he was only certain that he could single-handedly bring down one of them. Will’s impostor was a wild card who Hannibal would not pretend to understand, and Jack Crawford was a large man. It was best to wait, to bide his time and strike later.   
  
“Alright, Will,” Jack said. “Miss Lounds, you come with me. You’ll be under protective custody until further notice.”   
  
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Freddie said angrily. “I’m not even sure I believe him.”   
  
There was a silent stand-off, and from the feminine scoff that emerged Hannibal guessed that the two men glared her into temporary submission. Freddie Lounds was not a problem for the time being, and he would dispose of her later, when a better opportunity was at hand.   
  
The front door closed behind them, and he could hear the doppelganger moving around the front room of the house, picking up what sounded like dishes. The crinkling of a garbage bag, the sound of dishes placed into the sink. Hannibal stepped out from the corner he’d claimed as his own and tossed the envelope onto the kitchen table, letting the paper slide a few inches.   
  
“Hello, Will,” Hannibal said. The man froze and turned to stare at him, eyes wide with surprise.   
  
“Bloody hell,” he said, and Hannibal smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

"Please, sit." Hannibal pulled one of the chairs back from the kitchen table and gestured. The man across from him crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter.   
  
"I'm fine standing, thanks," he said. Hannibal took note of how this position kept the table between Will and himself, and from the meaningful glances he saw, Will was aware of this as well.   
  
"What are you doing here?" Will's voice asked. "You're not supposed to be here."   
  
"I have the results of your blood-work." Hannibal left the envelope unopened on the table and began to circle around, slowly advancing. Completely lucid eyes met his, and Will pushed from the counter to approach the table and reach for the envelope.   
  
With this movement, the table was still in between them.   
  
Hannibal studied the doppelganger as he took up the results, sliding them free of the envelope and reading through what was contained inside. The beard wasn't trimmed, although the hair appeared to have at least seen the ruffle of fingers. There were no circles under his eyes, and he was alert in the way of the well-rested. This man had suffered no nightmares, and slept the entire night through.   
  
"Oh," he said, "I am very relieved to know that I don't have chlamydia."   
  
"Or HIV," Hannibal said. He pressed his fore- and middle finger to the table and continued his slow advance, turning as though he were fitted to a spoke on a wheel. Will-not-Will continued to move as well, careful to never allow a direct line between the two men. "Or, if you read closely, the correct blood type." Hannibal felt no urge to delay the inevitable. There was no point, when this doppelganger had already laid all of his cards on Jack's table and set the hounds loose.   
  
"Good lord," Will-not-Will said, and he somehow managed to look afraid and disgusted simultaneously. "You know his blood type? That is...well beyond obsessive."   
  
"Where is Will Graham?" Hannibal could feel his mask corroding with every step, and would have been growling with hackles raised were he a dog. Indeed, some of the pack were watching him with pressed-down ears, and Winston raised his upper lip in a warning snarl.   
  
"That is an excellent question," the doppelganger said. The mask of Will Graham fell away entirely, and despite bearing the exact same physical attributes, the man before him could not possibly be mistaken for Will Graham under any circumstances. There were wrinkles around his eyes and mouth which indicated regular good humor, and an ease to his bearing which did not exist in Will Graham.   
  
"He should be here," the doppelganger said, "although I suppose we are always the star of our own dreams."   
  
Which solidified Hannibal's fear: Will,  _his_  Will, was gone, replaced by this creature wearing his skin. Anger boiled through his mind, blotting out rational thought. He had lost someone precious to him once before; he did not intend to repeat the experience.   
  
He stopped his slow circling, and the doppelganger stopped as well. The timing was crucial; now the chair Hannibal had pulled out was at the man's hip, awaiting use. Hannibal pulled a second chair free directly across the table, and seated himself with hands clasped before him. He appeared relaxed, breathing evenly with a regular heartbeat in his chest.   
  
"Sit, and explain," he said. The doppelganger laughed.   
  
"I could explain it to you with charts, and you would still not believe me," he said. "I could wax poetic for a while - would that help? There's a philosophical question buried inside of this narrative. I'll find it if you give me enough time."   
  
They both knew he was stalling, and only one of them knew how successful the attempt was. Hannibal rested his arms against the table and leaned forward, slowly imposing his presence with hardly any motion. The doppelganger gripped the back of the chair across the way. His knuckles were white.   
  
"You are being rude," Hannibal said. "Do sit."   
  
He watched for a reaction, and caught a flinch before the man cleared his throat and turned his face away. The twitch told him exactly what he needed to know: this man knew Hannibal's modus operandi.   
  
Hannibal was intrigued by the prospect of sharing a table with one who appeared to know him so well, while Hannibal himself remained in the dark as to the man’s identity - but this curiosity did not override his rising concerns for his friend. He spread the fingers of one hand forward, gesturing at the chair.   
  
"Please," he said, the third request. The air between them solidified with tension; the doppelganger did not want to sit with the same intensity as Hannibal desired him to. He was thinking, hard, his lucid eyes flickering back and forth between Hannibal and the opening to the rest of the house - gauging his chances, and coming up short if the pursed lips were an indication.   
  
Hannibal waited for the moment to break. In retrospect he would see his error: he was prepared for any number of actions which Will Graham would take, from running to possibly launching himself across the table, fists aimed for the cannibal's throat. Despite receiving confirmation of his suspicions not ten minutes prior, the face of Will Graham distracted him from reality: this man was not Will, and would not act accordingly.   
  
Will was the type of man who used weapons for their intended purpose - a gun, a knife, bare fists, all used exactly as intended. He was not the sort of man to improvise a weapon; despite Hannibal's best efforts to influence his world view, Will did not think like the raw, savage killer Hannibal knew lurked within, still shackled by oft-repeated social norms.   
  
In short, Will Graham was not the type of man to flip a table.   
  
The heavy wood rose to meet Hannibal with weight and speed, crashing forward and driving him back into the ground. He was surprised enough to fall, but not enough to overwhelm well-honed reflexes. He used his arms as anchors and spun the weight, forcing the table to roll to the side. He landed on his back, with his chair beneath him; the table, propelled by physics, landed to the side and flipped onto its face, legs splayed upward.   
  
The doppelganger was gone from the room. Hannibal surged to his feet and followed the loud sounds of crashing in the main foyer. The dogs were wailing in distress, uncertain of why these two men they knew could possibly be fighting. The smaller ones followed Will while the larger ones scattered, baying their dismay. Only Winston stayed at Hannibal's side, choosing the devil he knew, and Hannibal offered a friendly pat before storming into the front room.   
  
He had underestimated the stranger, again. He somehow knew Will's house; he knew Will's supplies and their locations. He about-faced and cocked the heavy shotgun, pointing the barrel directly into the center of Hannibal's chest.

* * *

  
  
Neither man said a word. Will gripped the shotgun tightly, knowing that any sign of uncertainly would be perceived as immediate weakness. He did not realize the muzzle trembled, slightly, with every breath.   
  
All-in. He took a deep breath and spoke, maintaining the American accent throughout.   
  
"At this moment, the FBI is breaking into your home. They will find Abigail. They will confiscate and test everything inside of your ice box. They will find your cellar." A tremble, a slight twitch. He was giving too much away. "It's over, Hannibal."   
  
Hannibal looked from the barrel to his face. He took a step forward; Will adjusted his grip, swallowed, then tightened his fingers.   
  
"Have you killed before?" Hannibal asked as he stepped again, all coiled rage and danger. Will's eyelids fluttered in an anxious blink.   
  
"A shotgun is less precise," Hannibal said. Another step. "You will certainly kill me if you fire."   
  
 _Will Graham is a killer._  He tried to absorb the words, tried to remind himself that this was a dream. A bizarrely detailed, persistent dream. It didn't matter if he pulled the trigger, because no one would die in reality. And who deserved it more? Who had earned this more than Hannibal Lecter?   
  
Hannibal took another step. There were only five feet between them now, easily covered in a lunge. The cannibal remained slow and steady.   
  
 _He eats people_ , Will reminded himself.  _He chews them up and swallows them. He's killed dozens of innocents and fed them to other innocents because it makes him chuckle. He tortures them. He'll do it again and again._  
  
 _It's just a dream._  
  
Hannibal took another step. Will could make out the pattern of his tie.   
  
The gun felt real. He could feel the metal in his fingers, heated where he was making contact, cold and heavy elsewhere. He could smell shot and dog and sweat.   
  
Hannibal stopped, now within reach. They were frozen together, his own hands shaking as he tried, repeatedly, to pull the trigger. His finger squeezed enough to feel the resistant pressure; he stopped himself. Hannibal reached for the barrel, slowly, to remove it from his hands.   
  
Hugh pulled the trigger.


	6. Chapter 6

The first shot was a blank. The sound of a shotgun blast filled the small room, making both men wince and turn their heads. Hugh had a single moment to realize that Hannibal was still standing, unbloodied, before the man rushed him. He didn’t have enough space to cock the second round; he tried to tilt the gun instead, to drive the butt of the stock into the other man’s face. He was as far as the clavicle when the full weight hit him, driving him back into the table at his waist.   
  
He bent backward and shoved up, the shotgun a line of disconnect between the two men. Hannibal pressed forward with his full strength and Hugh grunted with the effort of keeping him off.   
  
 _The teeth_ , he thought,  _avoid the teeth-_  
  
Hannibal head-butted him over the barrel and he cried out in pain. The gun’s weight shifted in the precious seconds he saw stars, and metal pressed into his throat. Hannibal was staring down at him, fierce and wild and completely insane.   
  
 _Switchswitchswitchswitch-_  
  
This was not a dream. This hurt too much to be a dream; this had too much weight and depth and  _logic_  to be a dream. Will Graham could better handle this situation, could look into the cannibal’s eyes and suss out the correct thing to say to diffuse the situation. He dove for the persona he needed, pulling everything he could from the dredges of his mind, and punched the man above him in the ear.   
  
Hannibal grabbed at his ear and Will said, “Get  _off_  me.” The tone was so spot-on and full of righteous anger that Hannibal paused to glance at him, and Will took that moment to aim another blow at his head.   
  
Hannibal fell back, and Will took a long moment to catch his breath before sitting up on the table. He gripped the shotgun in both hands, eyes blazing with fury.   
  
“ _What are you doing?_ ” He adjusted his weight and flickered his eyes around the room, centering himself. He looked at Hannibal again. “Did you  _drug_ me at dinner?”  
  
And he was so betrayed, so  _hurt_ , that Hannibal gasped out a breath of relief.   
  
“Will?”   
  
Will stood, looking down at the gun in his hands. He looked up at Hannibal, who watched him with the same blank stare as always.   
  
“Why are you in my house?” he asked. He did not ask why Hannibal was attacking him, because Hannibal’s motives were somehow both too simplistic and complex, and he had a goddamned headache.   
  
Hannibal straightened his suit jacket, smoothing out the folds and ignoring the blood trickling from the side of his mouth. Will didn’t bother to hide his pleasure at the sight of a wound sustained at his hands, and Hannibal, in response, did not clean the blood.   
  
“You have been away, Will,” Hannibal said. He turned and stepped toward the kitchen; Will looked around the room again, then clapped a hand against one thigh, whistling to the nearest dogs. Winston approached and nosed his hand with a soft huff of breath.   
  
“Hey, Winston,” he greeted as Hannibal returned. The doctor paused at the sight, making an obvious mental note, then offered an envelope.   
  
Will reached inside and pulled out the testing forms, glancing through the results. His eyes lingered a moment at the top, where the blood type was indicated, before skimming down. “Whose are these?”  
  
“Will you sit with me?” Hannibal said after several seconds of lingering silence. “We have much to discuss.”   
  
“Did you bring dinner?” Will asked, with none of the twitching or hesitancy of the past twenty-four hours. Hannibal smiled.   
  
“I did not; we will have to make do.”   
  
They stepped into the kitchen; Will leaned his shotgun against the wall and sat at the table, Winston and the others crowding around his feet. He smiled at them with genuine affection and scratched their heads, one after another. Hannibal finally dabbed the line of blood from his chin before opening the refrigerator in search of ingredients.   
  
“What do we have to discuss?” Will asked, voice laden with resignation. If Hannibal had drugged him, he would share his intentions on his own time.   
  
“Your doppelganger has made things very difficult for us,” Hannibal said, and Will leaned back in his chair. One of the larger dogs set his head on Will’s thigh, and the profiler began scratching gently at his cheek.   
  
“My doppelganger,” he said in a flat voice.   
  
“Yes,” Hannibal said. “I drew blood from him just yesterday and submitted it for testing under false pretenses. That set of results belongs to him.”   
  
“Belongs to my doppelganger,” Will said carefully. He wanted to make sure that Hannibal heard how truly insane this sounded out loud.   
  
“Do try to keep up, Will,” Hannibal said while rubbing raw eggs into a batch of ground beef. He added garlic and salt, then began browning the meat in a pan. While the meat cooked, he opened a box of cheap spaghetti noodles, which he broke in half and settled into a pan for boiling.   
  
“That’s not how chefs make noodles,” Will said.   
  
“I am aware. Sadly, we have no time to waste.” Hannibal stirred the pot, setting the temperature high and leaving the food for a moment to turn and address Will. “I must first confess to something, and then make a request of you. You must listen before you say a word in response. Do you understand?”  
  
“Is this about my  _doppelganger_?” Will let derision creep into his tone, and Hannibal tutted at him.   
  
“I have made a place for us, away from here - safe, where we may both live as we choose without consequence.”  
  
“As  _we_  choose?”  
  
“Listen first, Will. I took something precious and dear from you, which I regretted: your connection with Abigail.”  
  
Will flinched and looked down into baleful brown eyes full of unconditional love. He took a deep breath, and resolved to say nothing.   
  
“What happened to Abigail had to happen - but even a broken teacup may come together, Will. I meant to bring it together for you.”  
  
“You can’t resurrect the dead, Hannibal,” Will said quietly. He wiped a stray tear from his eye; this was entirely too much, all at once.   
  
“I can’t.” Hannibal turned again to the meat, which had begun to sizzle quietly. “Abigail is alive.”   
  
Will jolted, a full-body shudder which rattled the chair he sat on and forced the dog resting on his thigh to lift his head in confusion.   
  
“What?” he asked, unable to manage more.   
  
“Abigail is alive, and will join us when we leave. You will come, won’t you?”   
  
Too much, too fast, and Will could only slide a hand against his face, pinch the bridge of his nose, and release a shuddering breath.   
  
“Abigail’s alive,” he said, because of all the things Hannibal has said, this is the point that stuck in his craw.   
  
“Yes,” Hannibal said, and turned the pan full of meat to drain the grease into a small jar on the counter.   
  
“And in your house?”   
  
“Not any longer, I fear,” Hannibal said. “That is where the difficulties have come. Jack knows.” He turned down the heat of the pot to allow the noodles to simmer, checking his watch to ensure he did not turn them into a soggy mess. While both noodles and meat set, he began dicing tomatoes into small slices, and regretted that there was no real tomato sauce to add. The store-bought brand inside the refrigerator would have to suffice. He added two eggs to thicken the salty paste, added the fresh tomatoes, then poured the mixture over the browned meat. He stirred both and turned the heat to low, then checked the noodles.   
  
When he turned, Will was staring into the distance with a strange, strained expression.   
  
“What does Jack know?” he asked, his voice tight. “ _How_  does Jack know?”   
  
“The FBI is storming my house now, as we speak,” Hannibal said as an explanation. He ladled a pile of al dente noodles into the center of a plate, poured meat and sauce over the pile, and set the meal before Will. He offered the profiler a fork, served himself, and sat across from Will. He waited until Will took a bite of both noodles and meat before taking his own.  
  
“Abigail’s alive,” Will said. “Jack knows, and you want to run with Abigail and me.”   
  
“That is the gist of it,” Hannibal said. “She won’t be in the house; she will recognize the sounds, and escape to a rendezvous.” He could nearly hear the thoughts from across the table, turning round and round until they all reached the same conclusion. Hannibal had laid out his finest hand, knowing that his bait was perfect. Jack Crawford could offer Will many things: a job, a restored reputation, perhaps even respect every so often. Jack could not offer Abigail; only Hannibal held Abigail, without strings or complications, and by extension he held Will.   
  
Will looked at him, and Hannibal saw that he had won; the profiler’s eyes were clouded with indecision and uncertainty, but lurking in the depths rested hope.   
  
Hannibal ate his meal and waited. He counted in his head, a silent timer. Ten, eleven, twelve -  
  
“Alright,” Will said. “The dogs are coming.”   
  
Hannibal looked down at the mutts surrounding them and began to speak.   
  
“ _No_ ,” Will said, fury setting his face into a firm mask of pending violence. “They’re all coming.”   
  
“Very well,” said Hannibal.  
  
They finished their meal in peace, gathered the dogs into Hannibal’s car, and drove.   
  
Just outside of the long driveway to Will’s house, as the car pulled out and turned onto the main road, Freddie Lounds pulled behind them and followed.


	7. Chapter 7

"The drive will be over an hour," Hannibal said when they pulled onto the country highway. "Rest if you need to."   
  
He let Will fuss over the dogs crowded into the back seat without further comment. Two of the smaller ones were in Will's lap, occasionally making him grunt in pain as their paws slipped into more sensitive areas. The rest were assembled in a line on the back seat, sniffing at the windows and the seats in front of them. Hannibal grit his teeth as wet noses swiped across the windows, leaving mucus trails in odd patterns.   
  
Will turned and cradled the two dogs in his lap firmly, keeping them still as the car jostled them on their journey.   
  
"Rest, Will," Hannibal said. "I will wake you when we arrive."   
  
"We're going to Abigail?" Will's fingers tightened on the dogs in his lap until both dogs squirmed in agitation. Hannibal nodded, and Will laid his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed out.   
  
Hannibal reached to click on a quiet classical tune. After a few minutes of stillness from Will, both dogs settled across his lap and huffed. In the backseat, the larger dogs jostled each other for space and finally settled into a tangle of paws, fur and tails. Winston nudged at Will's elbow, and the profiler murmured quietly in response. Hannibal turned the music up, just enough to drown out the sound of seven dogs breathing, and Will stilled in sleep.   
  
Hannibal glanced in the rear view mirror several times, watching the car following at a great distance. The thought of handling their stalker exhausted him, even without the addition of wrangling seven unruly canines. He released a soft sigh in anticipation, and next to him, Will stirred.   
  
“What is it?” Will asked, opening his eyes and looking squarely at Hannibal’s hands on the wheel.   
  
“We are being followed,” Hannibal said.   
  
That woke Will up further, and he adjusted the two dogs on his lap so that he could sit up more fully. “Jack?”   
  
“Jack is no fool. He would not be so vulgar.” Hannibal glanced again into the mirror. “This person is determined, and not particularly skilled at hiding their intentions.”   
  
“Freddie Lounds,” Will said, and Hannibal was taken slightly aback by the anger in Will’s voice. Almost as though he were disappointed in the reporter’s pitiable skills of subterfuge.   
  
“Have mercy, Will,” Hannibal said. “She is not used to hiding her movements.”   
  
“She shouldn't be here,” Will said. Hannibal decided not to mention that the pernicious reporter had already darkened Will's door, as Will was not the one who had let her in. One of the dogs on his lap nudged a nose under his hand, and he obediently stroked the long snout. “Wait - what day is it?”   
  
Hannibal provided the month, date and year, and Will grumbled.   
  
“She was supposed to come over for an interview earlier today. Must’ve been watching.”   
  
“For what, I wonder?” Hannibal asked. Will tightened his jaw.   
  
“What’s left of Randall Tier is inside of my barn.” When Hannibal glanced over at him with blatant disapproval, Will shrugged. “I improvised. If she found him, she probably thought she had a good story going.”   
  
“What will she do, now that she is pursuing?”  
  
Will considered the dark scenery outside of his window. “She might turn around when she sees me with you. It might be too much for her to risk it.”  
  
“Is that what you think?”   
  
“It’s as good a guess as any.”   
  
“No, Will,” Hannibal said. “What will she do?”   
  
“She’ll follow us,” Will said quietly. “She won’t stop, not for a story like this.” He could already see the headlines in his mind. The fans would go wild.  
  
“I have a suggestion for how to handle the pernicious Miss Lounds.”   
  
“No,” Will said.   
  
“I have not had a chance to explain myself.” Hannibal thought he deserved some chance.   
  
“ _No_ ,” Will said. “That’s final.”   
  
“You realize how much damage she could do to both of us, as well as Abigail? Miss Lounds is determined to find her villains.”   
  
“She’s not a bad person, not like Clark Ingram.” The words cut as they left Will’s mouth, but Freddie Lounds was not a vicious murderer. “Find another way.”   
  
"I will try to," Hannibal said. He was not about to make a promise he already knew he would not keep.  


* * *

  
  
Endurance. He had worked in stage productions and knew various strategies and coping mechanisms for taking the long haul with a set of character traits. He understood the need for breathing while performing, and the demand to preserve one's physical presence at all times lest a slip in character alert the audience to an impostor.   
  
Still, even a stage show had an intermission.   
  
Will settled back into his seat again, grateful for an opportunity to close his eyes and pretend to rest. He knew he couldn't allow himself a moment out of character, and sleeping, or waking up, provided too many unknown possibilities for him to allow it.   
  
Still, he was glad to rest his eyes and body, even if his mind was on high alert. He needed to be ready to do just about anything.   
  
He wished he'd thought to bring the shotgun, or any other of Will's endless gun supply.   
  
 _I am Will_ , he reminded himself harshly.  _No breaks._  
  
Some part of him was still convinced that this had to be a strange, extended delusion. The dogs in his lap felt real; the bumps along the road felt real. Hannibal's heat at his elbow felt real. Everything was so  _real_. None of that did anything to convince him fully that this was all, in fact, real. He could not allow himself to believe in the impossible, even if he succumbed enough to play by the new rules.   
  
He needed this time to think, hard. Freddie was following them - he'd said it, and Hannibal hadn't denied it. It was enough for confirmation. He knew that Hannibal had already decided to kill her, and the only reason he would stop involved believing she was already dead.   
  
He could try to find a way to successfully fake her death. He cursed himself viciously for not waiting out the timeline long enough for at least that part of the plan to come up. Then he remembered that Hannibal had broken the timeline as well, and relaxed his personal chastisements. This entire endeavor was already doomed.   
  
He absently stroked his hands along the two dogs in his lap and listened to one of them grumble as it shifted into a more comfortable position.   
  
"I am not certain how we will transport all of your dogs with us, Will," Hannibal said. "Our destination is outside the country."   
  
Will's fingers curled into the furry bodies on his lap. He said nothing, but next to him Hannibal tsked his tongue, once.   
  
"My priority is Abigail," Hannibal said. Will grimaced. He was forcing a choice, and Will did not appreciate it. The next moments were tense, as Will tried to think of a way to argue his case that did not pit his affection for his dogs over his affection for Abigail.   
  
He came up blank, and the realization made him surly.   
  
"I will find a way," the doctor said after a few minutes of quiet. "We will not leave them behind."   
  
The peace offering was unexpected, and threw him for a momentary loop. That Hannibal was willing to compromise to this degree was akin to a gift given in the heat of the moment, and Will realized that he was expected to reciprocate.   
  
He glanced into the rear view mirror on his side of the car, where distant headlights followed them. What did it really matter, in the end? This was a terrible, strange delusion, and he would wake up in his own bed, without the company of a serial killer.   
  
"Pull the car over," he said to the window, and he felt Hannibal's eyes boring into the back of his neck. He did not repeat himself. The car began to gradually slow, and finally pulled over to the side and idled as the headlights approached. Hannibal began to open his door, and Will reached out to stop him.   
  
"No," he said. "I'll do it. She's likely to mow you down."   
  
He shifted the dogs on his lap to the floor of the car and opened his door. Several furry faces began snuffling, whining and shifting in agitation, expecting a break from the confines of the vehicle. On impulse, Will whistled to draw the pack out, and they began steadily loping through the nearby brush. Will walked into the center of the road, crossed his arms, and waited for their tail to arrive.   
  
Despite having no way to see inside of the darkened car at night, he could tell the moment Freddie realized who was standing in the middle of the road - likely clued in by the dogs also padding around him, their fur lit up by the headlights. The car slowed abruptly, as though the sight of animals triggered a reflex response to slam on the brakes. It eased into a stop; he heard the emergency brake crack into place, and finally, the engine died.  
  
Freddie watched him over the wheel. He could only see light reflecting from the whites of her eyes. One of the larger dogs walked to the car and began snuffling at the driver's side door, knowing that this was the door which humans came out of and anticipating a meet and greet.   
  
She was so busy watching him that she did not see the dark shadow moving alongside the car. Hannibal wasted no time in trying the door, knowing it was possibly locked. He smashed a tire iron into the glass, and Freddie's screams were abruptly released into the night around them. Hannibal dragged her through the window, into the road and began to pull her into the darkness.   
  
 _It doesn't matter_ , Will thought to himself.  _It's just a dream._  
  
"Hannibal," he called. The doctor turned to look at him, apparently unencumbered by the struggling woman in his arms.  
  
"We're bringing her with us," Will said.


	8. Chapter 8

“She is not a dog, Will,” Hannibal said.  “We cannot take her with us.”

Will ignored him, approaching her vehicle and peering inside.  He reached in to take up her purse, which he rummaged through until he found her phone.  He removed the battery and threw both pieces into the darkness.  

“We are,” he said.  “What’ve you got to keep her still?”

Hannibal had constricted her throat while Will was turned, and laid the unconscious woman in the direct center of the road.  Will stood close just in case a car happened by and she needed to be moved.  He watched Hannibal pop the trunk of his car, and despite his instincts telling him not to, he moved closer to peer inside and catch a glimpse of what waited there.

Opening the trunk of Hannibal’s car was akin to opening a doorway to hell’s possibilities.  There was clear intention written in the supplies contained:  a medical bag, a clear plastic tarp, twine and duct tape.  A meat hook, and a bucket.  Will glanced askew at the doctor.  

“What exactly did you come to my house to do?”

“It does not concern you,” Hannibal said as he pulled both the twine and duct tape out of the trunk.  He slammed the lid and approached Freddie while Will grabbed her keys from her limp hand.  He noted that she’d laced the sharper ends through her fingers, aiming to punch and damage.  He had to give her credit for trying.  

Hannibal flipped her onto her front and bound her hands behind her back.  He tied her ankles as well, and lifted her from the ground to begin approaching his vehicle.  

“No,” Will said, “in hers.  I’ll drive it.”  He gestured to the passenger seat, and Hannibal paused only a moment before approaching and sliding her into the seat.  Her head lolled to the side and she moaned; one of Will’s smaller dogs jumped into her lap and licked her face.  Hannibal slammed the door.  

“I’ll take the dogs,” Will said.  “One of us can look normal.”  Hannibal peered at him through blank eyes.  Will stood his ground, and finally tilted his head, confused about what the hold-up was.  

“They’re ruining your leather,” he said, and Hannibal smiled ever so slightly.  

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal said.  “We must hurry, Abigail will worry.”

It was calculated, and they both knew it.  If Will tried to leave, he was choosing Freddie Lounds over Abigail.  

Will gathered the dogs into the back seat of Freddie’s car, leaving Buster in her lap when the dog whined at an attempt to move him.  He shut the door, climbed into the driver’s side and turned on the car, pulling out when Hannibal’s car accelerated.  

“Wake up, Freddie,” he said.  He reached over and slapped her face lightly.  “C’mon, it’s time to wake up.”  

“I’m already awake.  What the _hell_ are you doing?”  She opened her eyes when he touched her and leaned away with a hiss; he put his hand back on the wheel.  

“Trying to keep everyone alive,” he said.  “It’s harder than it looks.”

“If you’re going to scold me for following you, save it,” she said.  Will laughed quietly, under his breath, and tapped his fingers on the wheel.  

“I could use all the help I can get,” he said.  “I know you can’t keep a secret, so just listen:  Hannibal is taking us to Abigail right now.  When we get there, he probably plans to kill you, despite me asking him not to.”

“I’d be upset,” she said, “except that so far I’m still alive.”  

“There’s only so much I can do,” Will said.  “He plans to take us both away, tonight.  He’s not concerned about leaving a trail anymore.”  

“Are you asking me to beg for my life?”  Freddie sounded offended, and Will shrugged.  

“I’m asking you to do what you think you need to.  Let me see your hands.”  

She twisted enough that he could spot the twine, examine the complex knot Hannibal had used.  It was lucky that it was late at night; there were no other cars on the highway.  

“Tell me you have a knife somewhere,” he said, and she nodded at her keychain.  

“Pocket knife attached,” she said.  He detached it and slid it into her fingers, trusting her to work out the rest.  She sat back.  Only the slight jolts of her shoulder indicated that she was working at the knot.  

* * *

 

The drive was indeed over an hour.  Will stayed close to Hannibal’s car, afraid that if he lost sight of it for a moment he would lose the trail, and Abigail along with it.  Freddie had stayed silent the majority of the ride, only commenting once on how quiet the car was.  In response, he poked at the radio and found a classical station.  She turned it off a moment later.  

They weren’t in Baltimore, or at least not close to the heart of the city.  They pulled in near a dilapidated, abandoned building.  Will threw the emergency brake on and hesitated.  Freddie saw his expression when Hannibal climbed out of the car, and slid her arms behind her back.  

“I’ll wait here,” she said, and Will looked at her with raised eyebrows.  They both knew she was lying, but now wasn’t the time for an argument.  

“Stay out of sight,” he said instead.  “Call the police.”

He tossed his phone into her lap, then got out of the car.  

Hannibal met him halfway.  “I hope Miss Lounds was not troubling company,” he said, seeing her wide, fearful eyes staring at him.  

“I haven’t reconsidered my decision, but I got close a few times,” Will said.  “She has quite the mouth on her.”

“I know a particularly enticing ginger dish,” Hannibal said, and Will couldn’t stop the way his lips tilted up.  He looked at the building.

“Abigail?” he asked, and Hannibal nodded before stepping forward.  

“There are a series of tunnels I make use of throughout the city,” Hannibal said.  

“You mean the sewers,” Will said, and Hannibal said nothing.  “Your nose can handle that?”

“I have lived in worse conditions,” Hannibal said.  “I also had an excellent master shower.”

Will realized that this was Hannibal having fun.  The man wasn’t trying to hide himself or his inclinations; he was simply existing in the moment, allowing Will to see him with full disclosure.  They stepped into the building; Will made a point of shutting the door behind them, and followed Hannibal into the darker interior.  

He didn’t pause or hesitate, though his instincts were screaming that he was in danger.  

“Abigail,” Hannibal called.  “It is time to go.”

And then there she was, slipping from the shadows like a dream inside of a nightmare.  The ugly scarring on the side of her head wasn’t hidden by the hair she had draped over it; the smell of fear and sweat were real.  The tears were real.  This wasn’t a young actress pretending; this was a young woman who was terrified.  

He nearly lost himself, right then and there.  Instead he stepped forward and opened his arms to her; she came to him, shy and skittish, fearful that he might hurt her.  He enfolded her, gently, and glared at Hannibal over her shoulder.  

“You call this necessary?” he asked, and he couldn’t keep the strangled distress from his voice.  

“I’m alright, Will,” Abigail said.  “Hannibal kept me safe for you.”

It had the smackings of a rehearsed, repeated speech.  He tightened his hold around her.  

“It’s time to go,” Will said.  “You trust me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, directly into his ear.  And then, even lower, so low he could barely make out the words, “God, _help me_.”

He heard the sirens in the distance, in the same moment he heard Freddie’s voice shout, “Step away from them, Dr. Lecter!”  He twisted around and moved, pulling Abigail to the side while Freddie stepped forward.  Her hands were shaking.  She’d be a terrible shot.  

“Don’t move,” Freddie said.  Hannibal had become fire and ice, blazing with pain even as cold fury settled across his features.  Will knew they were all in trouble.  He stayed in front of Abigail, who clung to the wall behind them.  

The sirens were getting closer.  

“Were you ever Will?” Hannibal asked, stepping closer despite Freddie’s demands.  “For even a moment?”

“You should’ve told him about Abigail sooner,” Will said, and Freddie was looking between both of them as though she wasn’t sure which should go down first.  “You could’ve had what you wanted.”  

The sirens were right outside, and Hannibal had no more time to waste.  He lunged for Freddie, who fired wildly into the air.  Will tackled him as he came, and they fell to the floor in a tangle.  They rolled, Hannibal clutching at his throat until he was on top, strangling Will.  

“Where is Will Graham?” Hannibal demanded, heedless of his own stranglehold preventing a reply.  “ _Where is he?_ ”

Blackness swarmed his vision as he choked.  Bullets, yelling, Abigail screaming - he fell unconscious with the sounds of Will Graham’s life crashing around his ears.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Audience participation request: does Will-not-Will wake up as himself, or in the same situation?


	9. Chapter 9

He came to with a loud, painful gasp, his breath rasping angrily through a sore throat, and found himself staring directly into Alana Bloom's eyes.   
  
"What the  _fuck_ ," he said, before he could stop himself, and he realized a beat too late that he'd spoken as himself.   
  
He shoved away from the table, stopped only by a sudden grip around his left wrist, keeping him from a hasty retreat. He looked down into Hannibal Lecter's predatory eyes and tugged at his hand.   
  
"Will, what's wrong?" Alana asked, as Hannibal tightened his grip.   
  
"Let go of me," he said, and twisted his wrist. "Let  _go_  of me!"  
  
"Will, you're dissociating," Hannibal said as he rose, and Will heard the lie as clearly as a scream in his ear. Alana's worried voice shot from the side.   
  
"What?" she asked, alarmed. "Will, have you had another scan? Is the enceph-"  
  
Will pulled his free hand back and punched Hannibal Lecter right in his goddamned face. The good doctor did not let go of his hand, but his head snapped back and he staggered to the side.   
  
  
"Will!" Alana was on her feet and coming around; Will grabbed Hannibal's shirt and hauled him forward, away from her.   
  
"Call the police," Will yelled at her. "Call them  _now_."  
  
“Will, you must calm down,” Hannibal said. He was reaching for Will’s other arm, and no, that couldn’t be allowed. Will released his shirt and tried to pull back. Hannibal still held his wrist. He grasped at the knife on the table, and Hannibal’s free hand caught his hand to restrain him.   
  
“Abigail,” he hollered. He saw the young woman’s terrified eyes, heard her whispered plea over and over again. He twisted his arms in a circle, forcing Hannibal to release his wrists, and threw another punch when the doctor tried to crowd him.   
  
“Alana, I must ask you to leave,” Hannibal said over his yells as he closed in.   
  
Alana gave him a withering look and ignored his request. “Tell me how I can help, Hannibal,” she yelled. Dear, blind Alana. Two psychiatrists. Will cursed his luck as he turned and ran from the room, having no intention of sticking around to see what kind of sludge Lecter intended to fill him with. He could hear the thundering footsteps behind him, and knew that if he were caught, this wouldn’t end well.   
  
He reached into his coat pockets until he found the switchblade, wrapping his fingers around the weapon in some kind of comfort. He didn’t pull it out yet, as he didn’t trust himself not to run into a wall to serious consequences. Not while panicked. He couldn’t leave; he’d be abandoning two innocent women to the fate of a man who wouldn’t care to kill them.   
  
He pulled out his phone as he trampled up the stairs, hitting the numbers he needed. One quick dial - he just needed to hit  _Send_  -  
  
Hannibal’s arms wrapped around his legs and he fell forward, his chin cracking on the upper landing as the phone skidded away. Alana’s voice rang from the study, asking where the sedatives were. Will flailed one arm back, trying to drive Hannibal away; a set of fingers gathered in his hair, pulled back, and slammed his head forward, cracking against the edge of the landing.   
  
He fell still with a groan, and tried to stop swimming through stars. A man and a woman’s voice echoed far outside of his universe, their voices distant nebulae which shimmered in glorious blues and reds.   
  
 _Someday everything you see here will disappear forever, and eventually the night sky will be almost completely dark. And isn’t that sad, sad? Isn’t that sad?_  
  
He was being lifted and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it. The woman’s nebula flashed reds and pinks in her uttered concern; the man’s flashed greens and blues. Forever calm, forever patient. He was settled onto a couch and they stood over him, their colors mingling in sensual, seductive curves.   
  
Will forced himself not to speak. He couldn’t remember why, but speaking out of turn would not help him right now. He was sure of it.   
  
“I’ll call an ambulance,” the female nebula said. “Hannibal, he might have a concussion from the fall.”   
  
“Alana, I am a doctor,” Hannibal said. Will’s eyes were focusing, and the two people standing over him shifted from blurred edges to solid states. “I can take care of him. Please, go home. I will take him to the emergency room if necessary.”   
  
 _Bad idea. That is a bad, terrible idea. Why is it? Why is it?_  
  
“Call the police,” he slurred, because he felt this was important to say. Both sets of eyes stared at him, one with outright concern, the other with hunger.   
  
Hunger, and anger, and death.   
  
Will tried to get up, to find Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder.   
  
“No, Will. Alana is right. You may have a concussion.” The eyes bored into his; he wanted to struggle, to fight, and the eyes saw that. “If you continue attempting to leave, I will be forced to sedate you.”   
  
It was a threat. Alana couldn’t hear the threat past her own worries. She looked at Hannibal with utter trust and visibly washed her hands of the night’s events.   
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said with a gentle peck on Hannibal’s lips. Will shook his head and his thoughts swam. She left the room; Hannibal stared at him, the mask cracked straight down the center, before following her to see her out.   
  
Will pushed himself up to sitting, paused to let the ringing die down, and stood. The study had no doors to the outside. He couldn’t walk in a straight line. Or maybe the line was straight and he was jagged. Either way, they definitely couldn’t use this take.   
  
“Will?” The voice was on the verge of concerned, nearing sympathetic. He didn’t turn to see. His hands met the bookshelf and he gripped the wood. It was probably Madagascar ebony, the prick.   
  
“Did she kill you?” he slurred. He rested his forehead against the shelf and debated the merits of passing out. He might wake up here again - he might wake up home -  _he might not wake up_ -  
  
“I suppose you did admirably,” the doctor said behind him. The voice was close enough to bunch his shoulders. “Although full credit must go to Miss Lounds.”   
  
Will was starting to think more clearly just because he could, but turning around was too much to consider. The hand that rested on his shoulder did nothing to soothe him. He tried not to pull away, as the act of listing to the side would end with him on the floor.   
  
“What do you want?” he asked, unable to run. Lecter was efficient; one good hit and all the fight was gone.   
  
“I’m sure you can guess,” Hannibal said, and took his elbow to guide him around to the settee. He walked unsteadily, unable to decide who he was supposed to be. When he sat on the cushions, his weight drooped around him. He closed his eyes only to have a pair of deft fingers pry them open and peer into his pupils.   
  
“You must stay awake,” Hannibal said. “You understand, don’t you?”   
  
“Do I?” he asked, and laughed to himself.   
  
“Who are you?” Hannibal seemed to inflate with danger while remaining physically stagnant.  
  
“My name is Will Graham,” he said. It was close enough. He wasn’t going to give the good doctor his real name, to admit that this wasn’t a long-winded, terribly detailed dream.   
  
 _It could be_ , he reasoned.  _And if it’s not, I’d rather protect what’s mine._  Hannibal was known for many things, and mercy was not among them.   
  
“I do not appreciate being lied to,” Hannibal said.   
  
And yet, he held his hands still. There were no weapons, no pain. One blow to the head, enough to keep Will complacent but not enough to damage him permanently. Will realized his power in one sudden, blinding flash of comprehension.   
  
“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he admitted, and he didn’t need to try to make up a tone or message. It was just the truth. “And I don’t know where he is.”   
  
 _And it’s not real, not real. What does it matter if it’s not real?_  
  
Hannibal’s fingers clenched, and Will realized the doctor had never released his elbow. He looked down and blinked, a slow, lazy movement. He just wanted to sleep.   
  
“Who are you?” the doctor repeated. He couldn’t be desperate and yet he  _was_. Will almost felt sorry for him. He still refused to give his name. It was far safer to remain Will Graham than to become himself.   
  
“I’m Will Graham,” he said, and he found that he sounded as sincere as before. “I’m the closest Will Graham you have right now.” There was clearly more to say, but his head was pounding and he was speaking through marbles. He closed his eyes and released a sharp, shallow breath.   
  


* * *

  
  
The man who was not Will Graham was trying his patience, and yet Hannibal did not dare attempt his previous solution. In the last vestiges of desperation, he thought that simply ending the doppelganger’s life would cease the torment. Instead, they both found themselves propelled back to the moment where their lives collided, and Hannibal could not fathom another solution.   
  
He wondered if fate were forcing his hand, if his attachment had proven too much for the cosmic balance and measures were taken to right the scales. There were odd tales of such things throughout history, passed down as religion or folklore, and Hannibal was a man of theories. God held a place of regard in the same way a curious specimen found in the field might, kept under glass and observed at a distance for its own folly. The impossible was a curiosity rarely entertained, save for the more fantastic elements of the art he enjoyed. He did gaze upon Leda and her godly lover each time he sat to dine.   
  
Perhaps he had tempted fate once too often, and now the hand of God had clamped around him and refused to let go.   
  
He did not sit alone. Indeed, the face at his side was exactly the face he would have chosen to join him, though the spirit within was lacking. He watched the man close his eyes and drift away from consciousness, inexorably toward his own calamity, and wondered at the possible outcome of simply letting his brain suffer damage.   
  
He tapped the man’s cheek in another moment, and murmured to wake him again. The hand on his cheek did nothing, but the shock of sudden cold wrapped in a hand cloth made the man jolt into awareness.   
  
“What -”  
  
Hannibal directed his fingers around the top of the cloth, to hold the ice inside, and pressed it to his forehead.   
  
“You will need to rest, Will,” Hannibal said, putting no emphasis on the final word despite knowing it was a lie. “I have a guest bedroom for you to use tonight.”   
  
“I’m not staying here,” the man insisted, and Hannibal had to admire the sentiment as he tilted his head.   
  
“You cannot drive in your condition,” he said, and the man deflated.   
  
“Give me my phone,” he said slowly, struggling to enunciate each word. As though the voice of Will Graham were a struggle. As though the accent itself twisted his mouth in a new, foreign way.   
  
Hannibal, still holding his elbow, stood and pulled gently to encourage the man to follow.   
  
“No,” he said, “my phone.”  
  
“To call who?”   
  
“Jack,” the man said. “Jack would give me a ride.” It was perhaps true. Hannibal shook his head and tugged again, prompting the man onto unsteady feet.   
  
“I am afraid I cannot allow that,” Hannibal said, all reason and logic and immovability. “The last time I allowed you to leave, the situation did not turn in my favor.”   
  
He wrapped an arm around the man’s middle and wrinkled his nose at both the proximity and smell. It was not that this man smelled unpleasant; he simply did not smell like Will. One night in Will’s lonely house in Wolf Trap would fix the issue admirably, enough to allow another trick, and Hannibal had no intention of falling prey to his own hopeful longings again.   
  
“The guest room,” he said into the ponderous silence. They walked slowly, and he realized the man was trembling, slightly, in his shoulders.   
  
“You remember everything?” he asked, and Hannibal nodded once.   
  
“You won’t hurt me,” he said in a statement, and Hannibal sighed in frustration.   
  
“It proved not to help,” he said, and Will-not-Will laughed quietly, clutching ice to his forehead and wincing in pain.   
  


* * *

  
  
He settled his guest into the bedroom when it was safe to allow rest and took the corded phone with him as he left. He shut the door and barred it from the outside. Then he returned to the dining room to begin cleaning, and think on just what should be done.   
  
Hannibal listed the possibilities in order to examine each objectively. First and foremost, Will Graham was gone, at least for the time being. This difference was either temporary or permanent. If temporary, he need only wait out whatever corrections were pending, and greet his friend at the other side.   
  
If permanent, Hannibal had to decide how willing he was to accept the new order. That was a simple task: he wasn’t, nor would he acquiesce to fate’s design. He did not know who the man barred into the guest bedroom was, and if he were honest did not care beyond the fact that the man was not Will Graham. He could engage this new creature, and over time suss out his motivations and weaknesses. Perhaps they might become friends.   
  
Hannibal did not want a poor substitute. Not even a doppelganger. And in truth, despite the change he might not be forced to settle. The man did have a trick, didn’t he? He wasn’t Will Graham, but he could  _become_. So well, in fact, that Hannibal believed it. Whoever this stranger was had intimate knowledge, mannerisms and the appropriate mindset lurking within his mind. It need only be drawn out and forced to stay.   
  
Hannibal excelled at manipulation for its own sake, and when his livelihood became involved never thought twice. The simple fact was that in a choice between Will Graham and  _other_ , Hannibal still chose his friend. Oddities of the universe be damned: Hannibal understood a true rarity, and a man who could understand him intellectually and accept him as he was proved more valuable than whatever poor creature now banged at his guest bedroom door, demanding release.   
  
He smiled as he washed the dishes clean of their half-eaten meals. A simple scrape, a delicate scrub, and everything was set to rights once more.


	10. Chapter 10

"I am going to open the door," Hannibal said. He did not add a threat, as he felt little need to emphasize the dangers inherent to the situation. He was also holding a knife in one hand, which would illustrate the point far more succinctly than wasted words could hope to.   
  
He removed the small barricade he had erected hours before and turned the knob, pushing forward to let the door swing open on its own. A quick glance inside of the room revealed no one, but Hannibal could smell that his guest was still present. He waited in place, tapping the knife's point against his thigh, and wondered how long they would remain at this stand-still.   
  
"Where is Abigail?" Ah, progress, or at least an attempt at communication. The voice emanated from an angle, indicating that the doppelganger was standing with his back against the wall adjacent to the door. A simple yet effective method of cutting off Hannibal's line of sight on the man.   
  
"Safe, for the moment," Hannibal said. "Come out, so that we may discuss her future."   
  
A frustrated grumble greeted that statement. "You can't use her to threaten me."   
  
"I believe I can," Hannibal said. "Unless you are willing to risk her life in exchange for yours."   
  
In this way both Will and his doppelganger shared a weakness. In a moment, the man who wore Will's face slid into view, fists clenched at his sides. He glanced down and saw the knife in Hannibal's hand, a curved beast better meant for flooring than flesh.   
  
He snorted and his lips curved into a smirk. Once again, Hannibal found the man amused by some sort of personal knowledge in regards to the doctor himself.   
  
"Why do you even  _have_  that," the man said, "you've never used it on anyone else."   
  
Not any _thing_ , but any _one_.   
  
"Please," Hannibal said. He stepped aside and extended his hand, inviting the man to exit the guest bedroom. There was a long, suspended tension between them as both men made a decision about the other.   
  
"Lead the way," Will finally said, and Hannibal couldn't restrain a small smile. He turned to lead the way to the study, and listened to the sound of Will exiting the room and following behind.   


* * *

  
  
In retrospect, panicking immediately hadn't been the best use of his resources, but he took heart in the certainty that he wasn't aware of anyone else who could've done better in a similar circumstance. Of all the worlds for his mind to choose to immerse him in, this was by far one of the least pleasant. He was not interested in becoming a beautiful tableau, even less a meal, and the simple reality here was that both possibilities were equally plausible outcomes.   
  
The only defense he had was the unknown, and neither of them knew where this path could lead. Hannibal appeared content to roll with recent events, which was fine and dandy for him, but Will was less certain of his place in this new world and how long he was expected to stay.   
  
Because he couldn't be expected to stay forever. He refused to believe that could be true.   
  
 _An accident_ , he thought as they walked.  _I'm in a coma, in hospital, stuck inside my head. I'll wake up._  
  
"I hope you don't plan to cook," he said as they neared the dining room.   
  
"Certainly not," Hannibal said, passing by the dining room and kitchen without glancing at either room. Will paused at the dining room entryway, where the wide double doors leading straight outside beckoned him. He reached into his coat pocket to grasp at his car keys, already starting to move -  
  
The keys were gone. He froze, looked down at himself, and checked the other pocket. Keys, wallet, phone, knife - all gone. The phone was probably cracked somewhere upstairs, but the rest of it had still been on him before he lost time to a head blow.   
  
"Something wrong, Will?" Hannibal was at the door of his study, peering back at him with a knowing little smirk. Will dug both hands from his pockets and didn't bother trying to hide his anger. Even without the keys, they were in a Baltimore neighborhood full of homes. In this very house, there was a phone somewhere which he could use to dial the police.   
  
"Come," Hannibal said, and opened the study door. "Sit with me."   
  
Will looked again at the doors, then sighed and moved forward. That route had taken him nowhere last time. Perhaps a new approach was needed.   


* * *

  
  
Hannibal poured them both two fingers of brandy and offered the second glass to Will, who sat at the edge of his chair and nervously ticked a heel against the ground. His fingers brushed Hannibal's as he took the glass, and he had no discernible reaction to the momentary contact. Hannibal felt displeasure coursing through him. This was the creature beneath wholly revealed, lacking any of the familiar traits of his friend.   
  
Hannibal sat and crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands. He folded his fingers around the glass and considered his next course of action, watching the man across from him ignore the brandy in his fingers. It was for the best, with a head wound such as his, but Hannibal considered that Will Graham would have sipped the brandy regardless, only because Hannibal expected him to.   
  
When the man set the glass aside, Hannibal could restrain himself no longer.   
  
"We are both aware of what has happened," he said, "however you seem to know far more about me than I know about you."   
  
The man snorted. "Yeah," he said, and Hannibal noted that Will's voice continued to spout from that mouth.   
  
"The truth is, I do not care who you are," Hannibal said. The man raised his eyebrows and looked at him, openly surprised by this tidbit. "I care about Will Graham, as my friend, and his whereabouts. I care if there is an end to this cosmic experiment, which we may both simply brace ourselves for."   
  
He leaned forward now, and though the man didn't move, the muscles in his legs tensed as he readied to spring away. Hannibal did not pounce physically, keeping his attacks in the verbal field for the moment.   
  
"And if there is not," he said, "I fear that you know my reaction."   
  
"I don't have an answer for you," the man said, scratching gently at one of his stubbled cheeks. "I know what you know. Will Graham has stepped out."   
  
"You look like him," Hannibal said. "You sound like him."   
  
"How did you..." The man stopped, then made a soft guttural noise of amusement. "You smelled it."   
  
Hannibal tilted his head, feeling threatened by this creature's continued revelations.   
  
"I fear that I must ask what more you know about me," he said. There was no attempt to smooth out the menace in his intonation.   
  
"Ask me anything," the man said. At first it seemed to be a convenient dodge, but the man's surly expression and miserable voice implicated confession. He was not being facetious; he was stating a fact. Hannibal could ask the doppelganger anything about himself, and receive an answer for it.  
  
The thought was both liberating and terrifying.   
  
He had thought that in accepting this creature, he would lose a facet of Will Graham's appeal: the ability to truly know Hannibal Lecter, within and without, and accept him as a whole being without masks. And yet somehow, despite the switch, there was ultimately no net loss; this creature knew his entirety already, and acted upon this knowledge. It was possible, then, that this was less a test or evening of the balance, but a gift bestowed by a benevolent benefactor. A healthier, less damaged facsimile who knew his pathology.   
  
As a starting point, the challenge was intriguing.   
  
"And Will?" Hannibal couldn't stop the hunger which passed over his features. "How much do you know of him?"   
  
The doppelganger slid back into the chair. His posture morphed in a casual sprawl, both arms on the armrests, and despite his general obvious health, a pallor descended over his features.   
  
His eyes skittered away, across the room to peer at the decor behind Hannibal's head. His fingers clutched the chair arms, as though his willpower alone held him inside the seat. Hannibal's mouth watered in his eagerness to taste Will, to  _bite_  him, to consume him whole and keep him integrated into Hannibal alone. The desire to possess left him breathless.  
  
Dulled eyes met his, and Will said, "Fooled you, didn't I?"  
  
And then Will was gone, a tarp ripped from the facade, and Hannibal was left reeling. Not a gift, then, but a taunt. Hannibal bared his teeth.   
  
The doppelganger grinned.   
  
"I've figured something out," he said. "Would you like to hear it, Dr. Lecter?"   
  
Hannibal would not. He would rather tear out this man's throat. He only restrained himself on account of Will's face, staring at him across the way. And as the man began to speak, he realized he was caught in a trap of his own design.   
  
"You won't kill me," Will-not-Will started, "not again. It didn't work. Now neither of us know how long this will last - but you know that Will Graham is inside, here." He gestured to himself, and Hannibal narrowed his eyes. "We share the same head-space."  
  
Now the doppelganger took his turn to impose, leaning forward and clasping his hands between his knees.  
  
"You have Abigail, and I have Will," he said. It was nearly over then; Hannibal's hand twitched, where he still held the knife, and the doppelganger saw the movement. He didn't smile.   
  
"Let Abigail go," he said. There was no addendum or demand attached. This was a command, and Hannibal twirled his glass as he considered it.   
  
"And if I don't?" he asked, eyes fixed on the man's. They both held contact indefinitely, and Hannibal felt himself losing only because it was still Will's eyes boring into his own. He was unaccustomed to the habit from the profiler, and had to turn his head away.   
  
"Then you don't," Will-not-Will said, pressing back into the chair again. He brought up one leg and mimicked Hannibal's posture, tucking one hand underneath his chin. It was so utterly unlike Will, performed by a form so  _like_  Will, that Hannibal felt his eyes burn with sentiment. He missed his friend, and this creature sitting in Will's skin mocked his attachment with every breath.   
  
Hannibal tapped the edge of the knife against the chair, careful to angle the sharper curve away from the leather.   
  
"You said that I should have told him I had her, before," Hannibal said. "That I could have had what I wanted."   
  
"Abigail is the key to a great many doors for him," the man said. "I don't know why you didn't realize that."   
  
Was it possible that allowing the young woman her freedom would release Will Graham as well? Either way, the message was clear: Will was held hostage, of a sort, unless Abigail was no longer the hatchet hanging above their heads.   
  
"Alright," Hannibal said, and the man blinked in surprise. "I will talk with her and see where she would like to go."   
  
"I'd like to be there," the man said. It was distrust at its finest, and it was exactly the sort of thing Will Graham would have demanded.   
  
With an aching heart, Hannibal agreed to his terms.


	11. Chapter 11

If he were very honest with himself, he had to admit that this was going better than he thought it would. Ultimately he was playing a very simple con, and it eased his mind tremendously to know that he'd been partially caught out. He didn't have to pretend he was anyone other than himself.   
  
He still spoke with an American accent. The confusion otherwise would be too much to handle.   
  
"Take a seat, Will," Hannibal said. They were in the dining room, only because Hannibal had brought them here. Will wondered if this room represented some semblance of control - the ability to feed satisfied a basic human requirement, and providing a meal gave the provider complete control over another’s nourishment, if only for a short while.   
  
Will hoped the doctor didn't plan to bring out a course to share. He wouldn't eat anything Hannibal gave him.   
  
"Where are my car keys?" he asked as Hannibal settled into the seat at the head of the table. Unable to sit across from him without having to raise his voice to be heard, Will took a seat to his left, where Alana had been only hours before. The seat Will Graham never used. Hannibal glanced from the chair to his face, and he saw that the message was understood.   
  
"They are safe," Hannibal said. "I will give them to you after this is settled."   
  
"You mean after Abigail is free," Will said. It was best to keep the goal in sight and clear, to ensure no confusion.   
  
"Of course," Hannibal said. "I must ask you a few things first."   
  
"That wasn't the agreement," Will said. He ignored the way his heart started to pound in his ears.   
  
"It will not take long," Hannibal said. He folded his hands on the table and composed himself, looking toward the centerpiece. "Tell me more of what you know."   
  
Will pushed back from the table and stood. "I'm not doing this."   
  
"I'm afraid you have no choice," Hannibal said. Nothing twitched, nothing tensed, and yet the air around him seemed to crackle with unspent energy. Will took a step back, and Hannibal flicked both eyes to his.   
  
"Do not move," the doctor said, and Will felt very much like a mouse in the sights of a cat. Movement equaled temptation to a predator's stare, and Hannibal had recognized his limit and given fair warning before pouncing.   
  
Will grudgingly thanked him, but only in his head.   
  
The doctor closed his eyes for a moment in a calculated blink. The violent intent passed, and when he lifted his eyelids they were back to square one.   
  
"Where's Abigail?" Will asked, because he did not want to dodge questions all night.   
  
"Upstairs," Hannibal said, and Will left the room.   
  


* * *

  
  
"Abigail? It's Will. It's safe." He peered around doorways and into darkened rooms, uncertain of just where he should be looking.   
  
"He kept you safe for me," he said as he walked. "I talked to him, and he's going to let you go now."   
  
It sounded like what she might want to hear, if she were really here. If Hannibal hadn't lied.   
  
He stopped walking and called himself several kinds of idiot.  _Of course Hannibal lied, he lies to get what he wants._  
  
"Will?"   
  
Will turned and blinked at Abigail, who stood in the shadows of a smaller, out of the way storage room. She was leaned against the door-frame, half of her still concealed. Her left side. He couldn't see what she'd lost.   
  
"Hey, Abigail." He kept his hands down and stepped closer, slowly, as though approaching a newborn fawn. She wasn't engulfed in terror, as she'd been when he first saw her; this time the fear lived in the shallows of her eyes and the tremble of her wispy strands of hair.   
  
"I didn't know what to do," she began, and stopped when confusion clouded her eyes.   
  
"So you did what he told you?" Will stopped a few feet away, letting her have the final space as a buffer between herself and reality. "I can't say I'd have done differently."   
  
"Where could I go?" she asked, and she sounded very tired.   
  
"Anywhere you like," he said. "Tell me what you want, now. I'll be there when he talks to you. Keep the record straight."   
  
She looked fragile and unmoored. If there had once been a quiet strength to her, now there was brittleness and cold. She shivered continuously, and her eyes leaked tears without her knowledge.   
  
She reached forward and whispered, as though she didn't expect anyone to hear:   
  
"I can hear you sometimes. You're always too far away to hear  _me_."   
  
 _Hannibal is not above using drugs to get his way_ , he reminded himself, even as he said, "I'm here now."   
  
She dropped her hand. "Has he told you what he serves?"   
  
"I figured it out." He watched her take that in and accept it, then move forward into the present.   
  
"Will," she said, "they thought you killed me. I'm sorry."   
  
This was mechanical, habitual. A statement from days of repetition, muttered to a ghost that wasn't there. Will reached to touch her shoulder, and when he made contact she burst into tears.   
  
"Will," she said, " _Will -_ "  
  
And then she was in his arms, clinging to the only solid thing in her life. He stroked her hair and told her things would be OK, he'd take her away, he'd keep her safe. They couldn't all be lies.   
  
"Tell me where you want to go," he said to the top of her head.   
  
"I want to go home," Abigail said.   
  
He tried not to remember how badly he wanted to go home.   
  
"Where's home, Abigail?"   
  
That stopped her short. Where could home possibly be? It couldn't be here, though this was the longest she'd stayed in one residence after leaving her parent's household.   
  
"I," she said, and stopped. The truth was she didn't have a clue.   
  
"How about this," Will said. "You come with me. I have a guest bedroom and enough dogs to wake the dead if intruders stop in." Intruders, or unwanted guests. He didn't miss the way her eyes jerked toward the stairway.   
  
"And guns," he added. She knew how to use them, better than he did. He expected the knowledge to provide comfort, and was rewarded when she pulled away. The thought of arming herself, defending herself, gave Abigail something other than her own fragility to focus on.   
  
"Good?" he asked, and she tried to smile. It hurt to see her try, but it meant progress. He didn't make her stop.   
  
They came down the stairs in a line, Will in front as an unconscious barrier. Every instinct demanded that he protect the young woman behind him, and when they entered the dining room where Hannibal was fussing with the music player, Will remained standing and prominent.   
  
"Hello, Abigail," Hannibal said. His smile was all daggers and edges. "I hope you enjoyed seeing Will again."   
  
Reminding her of the privileges he granted her. Will took a deep, calming breath, and remembered how it had felt earlier to punch the good doctor square in the jaw.   
  
"Good evening, Hannibal," Abigail said, and Will had to close his eyes against the ritual.   
  
"Is there something you would like to say?" Hannibal turned from the player as gentle piano trills began to echo around them.   
  
"I want to go home with Will," she said.   
  
"So I'll need my keys," Will said immediately. Hannibal didn't need to think about this for more than a moment; this was the deal, and Will intended to make sure he abided by it.   
  
"I see," Hannibal said. "Shall I help pack your things?"   
  
There was danger written throughout that statement, and luckily Abigail knew how to spot the threat. She shook her head, holding her chin high.   
  
"I'd like to leave now. I'll come get my things later."   
  
Hannibal was going to protest. He was going to insist, and defer, and eventually lose the tenuous grip he kept fastened over his own violent urges. Will slackened his jaw, let an easy, uncertain smile hint over his face. He crossed his arms loosely, both defensive and casual. Relief and shocked joy flared his nostrils.   
  
Will Graham glanced at Hannibal and didn't understand where the hesitation came from.   
  
"She'll be safe with me," he said, "I live in the middle of nowhere."  
  
He was excited to have her back, to take her home, to  _take care_  of her. Hannibal's face softened, looking at him. He kept his eyes on Abigail, the child he'd thought dead, and barely spared a second look for the doctor.   
  
"Let me fetch your keys," Hannibal said, and left the room. Abigail watched him go; Will watched her. She turned to look at him, and the two shared a flash of unencumbered relief.   
  
When Hannibal returned, Will held out his hand in silent demand, and Hannibal pressed both keys and wallet into his hand. He decided not to mention the switchblade. He wanted to be gone as soon as possible.   
  
"Come on, Abigail," he said, his posture dancing with excited renewal and trepidation. Abigail wanted to spend time with him, alone, and he hoped things didn't go as badly as last time.   
  
Hannibal saw them out, touching Will's shoulder as he passed. Will Graham paused and looked at him in surprise, eyebrows up and on immediate guard.   
  
Hannibal peered at him for several long seconds, then let him by without comment.   
  
Once they were in the car, Will exhaled and looked over at Abigail, who stared straight ahead, unwilling to break the illusion by peering out the window. Will started the car, turned down the radio, and pulled away.   
  
After ten minutes of listening to the radio's chatter, Abigail said, "I never told Freddie that I was afraid of you."   
  
Will said, "I never hurt you."   
  
The rest of the drive passed in comfortable, painful silence.


	12. Chapter 12

Hannibal sat eating the remains of what he thought to be his last meal within the United States and waited for the wail of sirens, the telltale portent of betrayal. He needed an incentive to once more force him to action, for otherwise he was content to simply observe what this doppelganger would do with the scant victory he possessed.   
  
The sirens never came, and Hannibal could not decide if the disappointment he felt should have been relief. He was not interested in the tedium of evading capture by police forces or the FBI, but the betrayal was expected. When the doppelganger chose to avoid the clear, unobstructed path before him, Hannibal recognized a dawning sense of intrigue. The man had no reason to trust Hannibal’s word, yet still intended to uphold his own.   
  
He was not Will, and yet he was as much an enigma as Hannibal’s true friend, and for this, Hannibal toasted his specter. It seemed it was now time to play the game in earnest.   


* * *

  
  
Will had to stop the car once, when Abigail’s eyes widened and she grabbed at his arm with one hand while holding the other over her mouth. He pulled to the side of the road and she threw open the door and heaved bile onto the pavement, her retches devolving into stuttering sobs of pain as her stomach cramped on no content.   
  
“Food or ginger ale?” he asked as she straightened, panting and sweating from the exertion.   
  
“Ginger ale, please,” she said. She dabbed at her eyes with her own shirt sleeve and sniffed, once, a solid, proud sound. She felt embarrassed and he couldn’t blame her.   
  
He stopped at the gas station close to his house and paid for the ginger ale with a wrinkled twenty fished from inside his wallet. He added another for good measure, thinking his own stomach could use a little settling. When he returned to the car, Abigail was standing ten feet away and breathing deeply.   
  
“How is it?” he asked, stepping to the driver’s side door and resting both elbows on the top of his car. She turned to look at him and smiled sadly.   
  
“It smells like gas,” she said.   
  
“It doesn’t at the house,” he said, and gestured to the passenger seat. “C’mon, you’ll get real fresh air out there.”   
  
Abigail climbed in, and they were on their way again. After a few seconds, she began to fiddle with the radio in search of a better station, and he let her because he didn’t care what they listened to. She stopped when some kind of predictable pop melody filled the car.   
  
“I haven’t heard normal music in a long time,” she said.   
  
“There’s no classical crap at my house,” Will said. She smiled.   
  
When they pulled into his drive, he continued glancing into the rear view mirror to check for following lights. Hannibal had come the first time; he might try again, this time with less honorable intentions. He might think that Will would surely betray him the moment he was out of sight, and in truth Will hadn’t thrown the idea out of the window. The simple fact was, his phone was gone, still lying on the floor shattered in Hannibal’s house, and he didn’t know anyone’s number without it.   
  
He slammed his car door and they both paused at the baying, howling and general desperate scratching coming from the house. Abigail looked at him strangely, and he shrugged.   
  
“There’s seven,” he said, “give them time and they’ll love you.”   
  
He fished in the trunk, found the jerky he’d known would be there for soothing stray dogs should he happen upon them, and offered her a chunk for good measure.   
  
Just in case.   
  
The dogs fell over themselves in their efforts to greet both of them. They were a sorry lot for protection, as proven by their complete failure to prevent intruders from entering Will’s home, but their barking was the best kind of alarm. He patted the heads that dared approach him, and waited for everyone to get acquainted. There was no long waiting period this time before Winston nuzzled into his hand. It seemed he was starting to smell like Will Graham, enough that the dogs were fooled.   
  
Enough that Hannibal could be fooled.   
  
Will led her inside and told her to explore at will, having no desire to make her feel like an unwelcome guest with an impromptu and wholly awkward tour. He instead went to the kitchen and began making toast for the both of them, spreading butter over the slices while they were still hot to ensure the butter melted into the dough. By the time Abigail entered the kitchen, he’d also set out jam and crackers. She sat and pulled two pieces of toast onto her plate while he started coffee.   
  
He started to speak, then stopped himself and let the silence sit. It was possible that she was enjoying having some control over her surroundings, including the standing wait between the two of them. He’d let her decide when to end it, on her own terms, and poured two cups of coffee rather than try and pressure her.   
  
When Abigail asked him where the guns were kept, he showed her and said nothing when she chose a handgun to keep with her. He was right; she checked the clip, fiddled with it, demonstrated more expertise in a few seconds than he had in his entire life. Once she was satisfied, she smiled at him and asked after the guest bedroom. He showed her, and moved to shoo two of the smaller dogs off the bed for her. She stopped him and bid him good night, and he left her with over half of the pack and a gun under her pillow.   
  
As far as he knew, she slept through the night. He didn’t check in, to avoid disturbing her.   


* * *

  
  
“Freddie’s coming over for an interview today,” he said over breakfast the next morning. “I’ll let you decide if you want her to know you’re alive yet.”  
  
Will was tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept, despite his own assurances that the dogs were an excellent alarm system. He’d been convinced that Hannibal would appear in the night, slit Abigail’s throat and kill him as well. He might not reset again, and this time seemed to be going better.   
  
So far.   
  
Abigail nodded, her mouth full of cereal. He’d offered to cook her eggs and she’d refused, staunchly. When she spotted the cereal on top of the fridge, she grabbed the box and would hear nothing else.   
  
He offered her coffee, milk and a bowl, and left her to it. She was on her third bowl of the stuff. It was almost eleven already.   
  
“I’m going to call Jack later today,” Will said. Abigail’s spoon dropped into the bowl with a soft clatter, cushioned by a mound of soggy flakes.   
  
“You can’t,” she said, “he hates me.”   
  
“He doesn’t hate you, Abigail.”   
  
“He  _hates_  me.” She was shaking. “He’ll have me arrested!”  
  
Will waited for the pending panic to subside. “Is that what Hannibal told you?”   
  
She looked down at the soggy mess in her bowl.   
  
“I won’t let him,” Will said. “I’ll keep you safe now, OK?”   
  
He was going to add more, but the sound of an engine drew both of their focus toward the front entryway. The dogs were already at the door and barking, scratching to get outside. Will followed them to peer outside, and recognized the SUV with a sigh. She was early.   
  
Freddie Lounds climbed out of her car and looked up at the house, then to the side where the barn beckoned her. She started for the front door. Will returned to the kitchen.   
  
“It’s Freddie,” he said. Abigail rose immediately, moving to answer the door, and Will let her.   
  
When Freddie knocked, Abigail took a long, lingering breath and exhaled her old life from her lungs. She rattled the handle as she unlocked the door, then opened it to meet Freddie’s eyes dead-on.   
  
The reporter recovered gracefully, and Will found himself a little jealous of her superior composure in the face of a shock.   
  
“Abigail?” Freddie nearly lunged forward, pulling the younger woman into a tight embrace.   
  
“Abigail,” she said, “my God.”   
  
Abigail was crying, had been crying since seeing Freddie’s reaction to her. Neither Will or Freddie mentioned her struggle to pull herself back to calm.   
  
“It’s alright, sweetheart, it’s alright.” Freddie was shooting daggers over Abigail’s shoulder. Contempt, blame and hatred twisted her sharp features into cold rage.   
  
Will said nothing. This wasn’t his moment to interrupt.   
  
“Abigail, look at me,” Freddie said, drawing back to meet the younger woman’s eyes. “Where has he been keeping you?”   
  
Abigail shook her head, unable to speak clearly yet.   
  
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Will said, choosing to bow out rather than listen to this conversation. For all her faults, Freddie Lounds was a woman - one way or another, she’d be better able to help Abigail through this moment than Will.   
  
He had, after all, killed Abigail’s father.   
  
 _Not me_ , he reminded himself absently.  _Will Graham._  
  
The line was blurry.   
  
He went back to the coffee pot, finding it a convenient excuse for staying in the kitchen long enough to hear Abigail’s bedroom door slam.   
  
“She’s going to take a shower,” Freddie said from behind him. He nodded at the coffee pot, refusing to turn around.   
  
“She said you weren’t the one who kept her,” Freddie said. “It makes sense, when I let myself be rational. You were in jail, you couldn’t have kept her hidden anywhere.”   
  
“Not without killing her,” he said, the gallows humor familiar on Will Graham’s tongue. His stomach roiled.   
  
“I know I’m early, but I had the strangest dream last night,” Freddie said as she entered the kitchen. “You were there, and Abigail was there, and Hannibal.”  
  
“Was there a yellow brick road?” he asked. He kept his eyes on the coffee, watching the creamer swirl in to turn the black drink a pale cream.   
  
“No,” she said. “There was a car drive, and a warehouse.”   
  
That explained why Freddie had come early today, if she remembered even a small part of before. He tried not to let his surprise show as he offered her the mug. She took it without a thank you.   
  
“Strange dream,” he said.   
  
“Were you ever Will?” she asked. He braced his hands on the counter behind him, propping himself up. “That’s what he asked, as he was killing you. You remember, don’t you?”   
  
“I don’t think I’m empathetic enough to remember another person’s dream,” he said. His knuckles were white.   
  
“But you remember,” she said. It wasn’t a question, so he said nothing.   
  
“I still have a book deal with Abigail,” she said. “And no offense, Mr. Graham, but I think her story will be far more interesting than yours.”   
  
“I need you to call Jack,” Will said. Her eyebrows shot up and she sipped her coffee.   
  
“Why haven’t you called him?”   
  
“I lost my phone last night,” he said. “Please, call Jack.”  
  
Freddie pulled out her phone and flipped through her contacts. “What should I tell him?”   
  
“Tell him the truth,” Will said. Freddie nodded. “And tell him we need Alana, too.”   
  
He was gathering them all in one location. He knew it was a risk, but surely with so many people, the risk to any of them individually was close to nothing. Freddie pressed send and listened to the earpiece, sipping her coffee again. After a few seconds, her brow creased.   
  
“Brian?” she asked. “Why do you have Jack’s phone?”   
  
She put the mug down on the kitchen table rather than drop it. Her eyes were wide and fearful.   
  
“I understand,” she said, and hung up. She looked up at Will, opened and closed her mouth once. She licked her lips and tried again.   
  
“Jack’s missing,” she said.  
  
Will felt as though he should’ve seen this coming.


	13. Chapter 13

"Hannibal's got him," Will repeated for the third time in as many minutes. Each time he said it, Freddie shook her head and refused to believe him. She seemed tempted to bundle Abigail up and take the younger woman far away from all of this, possibly to another state. Even another country.   
  
Will didn't hate the idea.   
  
Abigail finally stepped in when Will's word clearly proved unfitting.   
  
"Will's right," she said, "I'm sure of it."   
  
"They're working together, Abigail," Freddie said. "They have been for months."   
  
"Don't tell me what I know," Abigail said, and her voice had bite. She was standing, her invisible hackles raised, and the air around her clouded with tension. Freddie blinked and took a step back; Will recognized the danger, and raised his hands in Abigail’s direction. The movement drew Abigail's anger onto him, and Will spread his fingers.   
  
"It's alright, Abigail," he said gently. "She believes you. Don't you, Freddie?"   
  
"Of course," Freddie said, her voice as slick as oil. "I'm sorry, Abigail. I didn't mean to question your experience."   
  
"Why don't you go get some tea?" Will stayed gentle, unmoving, letting Abigail decide when she would allow them near enough to touch. The danger faded from her eyes, and she was left confused and a little embarrassed in the remnants of her exposed temper.   
  
"OK," she said, and left the room. When they heard the water running from the tap, Freddie looked at Will.   
  
"She's probably titering off whatever he was giving her," Will said with a shrug. "Mood swings."   
  
"I thought she was going to try to kill me," Freddie said.   
  
"Not try," Will said, and Freddie blanched.   
  
"You think she?..."   
  
"I think Abigail is going to need some time to remember who she is," Will said.   
  
“And you?” Freddie asked.   
  
“I know who I am,” Will said.   
  
Freddie did not look reassured.   
  
"Get Alana on the phone," Will said. "Tell her what's going on and who's here."   
  
"You think she'll believe me?" Freddie asked.   
  
"Better you than me," Will said, and he thought he saw a flash of sympathy in Freddie's face. It made him feel queasy.   
  
"I'll need a new phone," he said after a while. "Can you handle that?"   
  
"You don't have a land line?"   
  
He shook his head, and she sighed.   
  
"Well, that's a bet I just lost," she said. "You seemed like an antique kind of guy. I guessed a rotary phone."   
  
"I'm not going to ask who you made that bet with," Will said. "I feel like I'd be offended if I knew."   
  
"Probably," she said. She sat at the table and pulled out her phone, scrolling through the contacts. As she worked on dialing up Alana, he let the dogs out and watched them roll in the grass and chase each other.   
  
"Dr. Bloom, it's Freddie Lounds," he heard behind him. "I need to speak to you about Abigail Hobbs."   
  
A pause.   
  
"He's there with you now?" Freddie sounded agitated. "No, I would  _not_  like to speak with both of you. Could you just -"  
  
"Put him on the phone," Will said, and held out his hand. Freddie looked at him, then relayed the message and handed over the phone. Will waited until the sounds indicated the phone was passed over.   
  
"Hello, Will," Hannibal said. He sounded so damn satisfied that Will almost hung up on him.   
  
"Hello, Dr. Lecter. Where is he?"   
  
"Alana tells me that you've heard something regarding Abigail?"   
  
"Yeah," Will said. "Imagine that."   
  
He could hear the sound of footsteps, as Hannibal put some distance between himself and Alana. Will glanced at Freddie, who was watching him intently, recording every word in her mind. He stepped outside of the screen door and let it slam behind him, cutting her off from his side of the conversation.   
  
"Where is he?" he repeated, this time with more volume and force.   
  
"I have taken precautions, Will." A slight rustling; Hannibal was standing outside, where there was a breeze. "I did not feel confident in your commitment to our arrangement."   
  
"You're trying to force my hand," Will said. "I already told you, I don't have control -"   
  
"I believe you do," Hannibal said. "And if you do not, it will be interesting to see you try to gain some."   
  
At this point in the game, Crawford was the only one fully informed on the FBI's end. Will rubbed a hand across his face, trying not to focus on how badly this new development derailed his plans to get Abigail away and then contact Jack to build a better mouse trap.   
  
He kept thinking as the trap, and not as the mouse. It was an error he intended to stop, now.   
  
"Tell me what you want, Hannibal," he said slowly. "Tell me  _exactly_  what you want, to let Jack go."   
  
"I'm disappointed, Will," Hannibal said. "You know more than you've let on."  
  
"You want me to go with you," he said. He sounded tone-deaf to his own ears, deadened to the possibility. He looked behind him and saw Freddie Lounds pressed against the screen door, listening. "Where will we go?"   
  
"I've prepared a place," Hannibal said.   
  
"No Abigail," Will said. He needed to be clear on that point.   
  
"No. And once we have arrived, I will let the bulldog free."   
  
Will knew he was shaking. He shoved his free hand into his pocket and looked out across his property.   
  
"Alana?" he asked.   
  
"Do not force my hand, Will."   
  
That was the problem with negotiating with a murderer: Will knew how far he'd go, if pushed past his emotional limit. He missed his friend, and would do anything to find his way back to Will. He didn't care enough about any of the others to leave them unscathed. He would kill the lot of them.  
  
Will couldn't claim the same. His priority was the survival of everyone; Hannibal's priority was Will Graham, and that narrow focus made him more dangerous.   
  
"Alright," he said, "I'll meet you."   
  
"No, dear Will. I will come fetch you."   
  
"Three hours," Will said, and disconnected the call. He turned and met Freddie's eyes; she looked both appalled and jealous.   
  
"I'll try to send you emails," he said as he opened the screen door. "Your readers will love it."   
  
"Will, are you sure about this?" She wasn't worried, but she sounded the part. He was impressed by her callousness.   
  
"No," he said. "You're going to take Abigail and get out of here. Wait until five, then take her to Alana."   
  
"Five?" Freddie looked at the nearest clock. "It's only noon now."   
  
"Gives enough time," Will said. "The further we are from the people I don't want in danger, the better my chances."   
  
"You think you have a chance?"   
  
He saw no reason to answer that.   
  


* * *

  
  
Three and a quarter hours later, Hannibal pulled into his driveway with a car Will didn't recognize. Freddie's car was gone, and with it both Abigail and the dogs, all headed for Alana's house. Will was standing on the porch, and jumped down the steps to approach the car. Hannibal watched him with cold, detached professionalism.   
  
"Where are the dogs?" he asked, noticing the lack of wailing from within the house.   
  
"Not here," Will said. He pulled open the passenger's side door and sat, closing the door behind him. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared ahead, resolute in his concentration.   
  
"Seat belt, please," Hannibal said. "We wouldn't want to be pulled over."   
  
"No," Will said, and clicked the belt into place. "We wouldn't want that." 


	14. Chapter 14

The daylit road seemed more ominous, and he had a theory for why. The direction of travel was obvious, on display, while the destination remained in the driver's hands alone. None of the landscape was familiar, and Will was desperately exhausted. He hadn't slept during the night, fretting over Abigail's safety and his hesitant truce with the man at his side. Clearly he hadn't harbored his worries alone, and now he was stuck in a car for an unknown period of time with Hannibal Lecter.   
  
He kept his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, pulling the fabric tightly closed, and tried every mental trick he knew to try and put a stop to this.   
  
"I would ask after your thoughts," Hannibal said, "but I feel that they are not fit for polite company."   
  
"I'm not fantasizing about killing you," Will said. He thought of adding more, and found that his mind wandered further than anticipated. He was snapped back to full wakefulness by the gently prodding voice echoing back from the glass.   
  
"A pity," Hannibal said. "It is useful as a focusing mechanism. I would not be offended if you were to try."   
  
"I'm sure it would delight you to no end, Dr. Lecter," Will said. His eyelids were half-closed and he was starting to slip. The last half of his statement lapsed into differently formed vowels and softer consonants. He cleared his throat and rubbed his cheek against one shoulder.   
  
It was snowing, he realized. Large fluffy puffs of white splattered across the windshield, occasionally smeared by the swipe of wipers. The snow was too powdery to stick, and the wipers groaned against the glass with each stroke.   
  
Hannibal reached down and his entire body tensed, prepared for anything. Hannibal only turned on the stereo system, and a soft cantata surrounded them in a calming glow.   
  
Will hated it immediately.   
  
"Sleep, Will," Hannibal said. "The drive is several hours, and you could do with the rest."   
  
"Several hours," he murmured. "Where the hell are you taking me?" Again he slipped, and again he cleared his throat. His eyes were watering from the effort of remaining awake.   
  
"I will not accept a poor substitute." Hannibal glanced to the side in Will's direction, and goose pimples rose along his skin. "I will speak about that with Will, and none other."   
  
Will was tempted to throw caution to the wind, cast off the mask entirely and reveal himself in full. There was no point; he was trapped as long as the car traveled at high speeds, unless he dared risk a crash. Exhaustion threatened to make him reckless, and there was a single remedy.   
  
"Is Jack alive?" he asked, to change the subject away from his slipping facade.   
  
"Yes," Hannibal said. His fingers were clenched around the wheel, unmoving from their positions. There were no nervous ticks, no finger spasms. The good doctor was using every ounce of his being to resist some kind of violent urge, and Will was tired enough that he wasn't certain of his own gratitude for the restraint.   
  
Every time he spoke, the tension coiled tighter. He resolved to stop himself from causing the spring of Hannibal's rage to unfurl, afraid to tempt the lashing frenzy once it was released. There was nothing else to talk about, anyway.   
  
He closed his eyes at last, hands balled into fists inside of his coat pockets, and let the car's slight rocking coupled with the gentle hymns calling for the grace of God's salvation lull him to sleep.   
  


* * *

  
  
He woke to the feeling of his hand being tugged from the warmth of his coat, and opened his eyes in time to see one half of a handcuff link around his wrist. He was fully awake in another moment and jerked at his wrist, finding it stopped short inches away from the steering wheel.   
  
"What the  _hell_  -"  
  
He heard the click of a switchblade a moment before Hannibal's hand clutched his chin and forced him to still. The metal of the blade pressed into his belly and he clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to swing with his free hand.   
  
"We are staying at a motel for the night," Hannibal said. He spoke as though he'd gently roused Will from sleep and there was no inherent threat hanging over the conversation. Will resented him for his perpetual emotional control, and shifted in the seat. The knife pressed deeper, and he held himself still with effort.   
  
"I will go arrange the room. Wait here." Hannibal drew hand and knife away to step from the car, and Will sank back into his chair with a huff of relief. He scraped a palm over his face with his free hand and twisted the captured arm, checking for any weak points in the metal. Of course, Hannibal was thorough as always, clicking the cuff into a snug fit. He fell back and ground his teeth, then took a look over their temporary home.   
  
The motel was two stories with the doors facing the outside. All of the lights worked beautifully, with no flickering or chipped paint to interrupt the relative homeliness of the place. Trust Hannibal to find the one well-maintained motel in the entire country to settle in for the night. Will turned to look in the back seat, and saw two suitcases propped against the cushions.   
  
"I'll bet one of them has clothes just my size," he said in his own voice. He wanted to feel like himself, if only for a moment. The car door opened a moment later, letting a blast of cold air into the cabin, and Hannibal brushed snow from his shoulders and hair.   
  
"We'll be in number eleven," he said, and Will waited for his wrist to be unlocked. Hannibal released the cuff from the wheel and motioned for his other hand. Will scoffed.   
  
"What exactly do you think I'm going to do?" he asked, pulling both hands away from the doctor's reach. Hannibal merely watched him and waited.   
  
Will slide the free cuff around his other wrist and clicked it into place slowly, hating the finality which accompanied the action. Hannibal's mask was falling as surely as Will's was, and the lapses were becoming more dangerous as the civility they'd both known slipped further away.   
  
Hannibal started the car and glided toward the spots in front of room number eleven. The lot was covered in a fine sheet of snow and frozen rain, which crunched under the tires. When he parked and turned off the engine, both men sat in silence for several long seconds without moving. When Will began to see his breath due to the dropping temperature, he reached for his door handle. Hannibal's hand on his elbow stopped him.   
  
"We have not yet arrived," the doctor said. "You understand?"   
  
Jack still wasn't safe. Will nodded, and Hannibal released his arm. He pushed his door open and stood glowering at the door, belatedly hoping that there were two beds and he wouldn't be expected to sleep in a chair, or on the floor.  
  
Hannibal took only one of the suitcases and approached the room, Will trailing behind him. As he slipped the keycard into the lock, he asked, "Are you hungry, Will?"   
  
Will didn't answer until they were both inside and he had warmed up enough to stop shivering.   
  
"Yes," he said, seeing no reason to lie. He hadn't eaten since much earlier in the day, and the lack of nutrients was only making his exhaustion worse.   
  
There were two beds, he noted, and felt a profoundly uncomfortable sense of gratitude at the sight.   
  
"Very well," Hannibal said. "I will leave to find us a decent meal. You will stay here."   
  
He went back outside and Will sat on the closest bed, already fighting the urge to just lie down and sleep until the end of time. He heard the muffled sounds of a trunk being closed through the door, and his eyes fell to Hannibal's hands the moment the doctor reentered the room.   
  
Twine, and a roll of duct tape. Will felt his hackles rising in ire.   
  
"I'm not going to try to leave, Doctor Lecter," he said angrily.   
  
"No, you are not," Hannibal said, and gestured for him to lie down. "I suggest you find a comfortable position for the night."   
  
He used the twine to construct a five point restraint connecting Will's waist to his ankles and handcuffed wrists, tying him over his clothing to ensure no marks to the skin. When he reached for the duct tape, Will hit his limit.   
  
"I won't cry out," he said. "I won't scream or yell or make any noise at all."   
  
Hannibal paused, clearly debating on Will's trustworthiness. Will tugged at his wrists for emphasis.   
  
"I'm not going anywhere. You promised me food. Duct tape just adds an unnecessary step." In truth, he didn't want to lose his voice as well as his mobility. He couldn't help but envision the terrible things that might happen while Hannibal was away. One good spark and he was a dead man, and with duct tape over his mouth no one would even hear his calls for help.   
  
Hannibal relented without a word. He instead unplugged the phone, and took it with him to the car when he left the room. Will laid his head back and stared at the stark white ceiling, hoping that this trip would be over tomorrow and there were no more motels in their immediate future. One night like this was more than enough.   
  


* * *

  
  
Hannibal found a late-night diner within five minutes of the hotel and ordered two menu items to go. He smiled at the wait staff and tipped the young woman who brought him the bag full of sub-par fare. She thanked him profusely and told him she hoped he enjoyed the meal, and that they'd see him again.   
  
He stepped outside, looked up at the night sky full of thick snow-filled clouds and sighed. His breath clouded the air in front of him.  
  
He hadn't enjoyed restraining the doppelganger, and regretted that he'd had to stop at all, but the weather combined with the length of the drive forced a deviation from the original plan. At least the man hadn't complained or attempted to break away, though Hannibal wasn't as certain of Jack Crawford as a prohibitive influence on the man's desire to escape.   
  
Hannibal had only one piece of his desired outcome, and that piece would need to be coerced into performing adequately as a replacement for what was lost. Hannibal had hoped to avoid physicality with the doppelganger, but hearing Will Graham's voice begin to fade away pushed him to a mental limit he had not previously known he had. Thus far the man had cooperated without a struggle, which served to remind Hannibal of what Will Graham would  _not_  have allowed, were he here instead of someone else.   
  
Will Graham did not respond well to touch of any kind, and certainly would not have allowed himself to be bound without an argument, especially after time within the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.   
  
This man lacked the mental traumas and small defeats which guided all of Will Graham's interactions with the world, and the missing pieces grated upon Hannibal's tolerance.   
  
His anger made him sloppy, and it was halfway back to the hotel that he realized he should not have sealed in the stranger at all. It was not an action he would have taken with Will Graham; he would have allowed Graham the benefit of the doubt and trusted him to remain where he was left, like a stray dog starving for the only meal it knew would come. Hannibal had treated the stranger as a stranger, which implied acceptance of the loss of his friend. This would encourage the doppelganger's odd gaffs further, perhaps even full abandonment of the game in favor of his own voice.   
  
That was the opposite of Hannibal's goals, and the doctor chastised himself for letting emotional turmoil rule his actions. He was acting as though their final destination would force the doppelganger out and allow Will Graham to emerge once more. The flight of fancy bothered him the moment he recognized the signs of daydreaming rather than practical planning.   
  
 _His_  Will might be gone, forever; this sad spirit might be all that remained, and Hannibal was a man who was not above clinging to the past and attempting to draw it into the present. Hannibal had found something dear to himself, something he wanted to keep for his own. Something, be it fate or an angered deity, had seen fit to remove the one part of his life he was no longer certain he could do without. He was driven by loneliness, and greed, and selfishness; he was driven by sheer desperation, and the childish want of a friend who understood him, and who he could trust.   
  
If he wanted this doppelganger to become and remain Will Graham, he would need to treat the man as he would Will, and accept, in his heart, that this truly _was_  Will.   
  
Hannibal felt utterly human and small as he returned to the motel and pulled the warm bag from the passenger's seat.   
  
He entered the room to find that the man was fast asleep, and groggily stirred with a quiet mutter when the door latched behind him. He set the crinkling bag on the table and drew the switchblade - Will's blade. Fitting, for what he was about to do.   
  
"My apologies," he said as he unbound the man's -  _Will's_  - hands. He slid the blade under the twine and gently shifted the metal, slicing through the binds quickly. "I'm afraid I allowed unreasonable fears to get the better of me. I hope you'll forgive me, Will."   
  
Will watched him as he moved, eyes fixed on the blade until it was closed and set on the nightstand, just between the beds. Hannibal removed the handcuffs next, and tossed them toward the suitcase in the corner. They jangled as they landed, and Will sat up, rubbing his wrists and blinking in bare wakeful confusion.   
  
"It's alright," he muttered after a while. "Did you bring food?"   
  
Hannibal set both meals on the small table, across from each other, and gestured for Will to join him. Will sat heavily in the old, pleather chair and picked up the plastic fork provided with the meal.   
  
"Pancakes?" Will glanced at the clock on the nightstand, blinking slowly. "At two in the morning?"  
  
"They are filling," Hannibal said gently. He wanted to make clear that this meal was chosen with care for his friend. "There is bacon, and bottled water as well."   
  
"Hm," Will said. He had never been polite at the best of times, and fighting a losing battle with exhaustion hardly qualified as his highest moment. He cut a rectangle into the side of the pancake pile and began to eat, one slow bite at a time.   
  
"We have at least three more hours of travel," Hannibal said. "It would have been less, save for the weather."   
  
"I guess God has an opinion," Will said around a piece of bacon. His gruffness brought a fond smile to Hannibal's lips. "When do I get to find out where we're going?"   
  
"When we get there," Hannibal said. Then, cautiously, he added, "I have called in an anonymous tip for Jack's location. By tomorrow evening he will be found, and safe."   
  
Will had lifted a hand to his face while Hannibal spoke, and jolted at the statement. He wrapped his palm across his mouth, as though pushing words back inside of his throat, and blinked at Hannibal over his fingers. He dropped his hand and took a deep breath through his nose, eyebrows raising as he licked his tongue over his front teeth and sucked in air.  
  
He dropped his fork and leaned back, hand once again resting over his mouth.   
  
"So," he said, and waved at the table. "Where does that leave this?"   
  
"Do you know where you are, Will?" Hannibal watched annoyance flood Will's expression, and swallowed the urge to chuckle at the sight.   
  
"I'm not a child," Will said, "I could figure it out."   
  
"You certainly could. I suggest you do not try." Hannibal cut through his pancakes with the serrated plastic knife, speared the slice, and delicately lifted the small pile to his mouth. Will watched the entire endeavor with a scowl, and looked away when Hannibal started chewing.   
  
The message was not lost.   
  
"I have no reason to stay," Will said weakly, and Hannibal saw that his heart was not in the declaration. Not at two in the morning, with the weather worsening and warm, sweet-smelling food tempting him to relent, if only for a bit.   
  
"I hope you will stay, for my pleasure," Hannibal said. "I look forward to reaching our destination and showing you what I have prepared. You will approve, Will, I am certain of that."  
  
Will finished the bacon and drank the water. He wiped his mouth and slid out of his coat, tossing it over the back of his chair.   
  
"I'm going to bed," he stated, and Hannibal nodded in reply.   
  
"You will see, Will," Hannibal said. "Abigail may not be there, but that place was made for you."   
  
Will shuddered slightly, as though the words brought a terrible memory with them.   
  
"In the morning," he said as kicked off his shoes and pulled the sheets over himself. "We'll talk tomorrow."   
  
Hannibal smiled, and waited until he heard the sounds of a deep sleep before finishing his meal.


	15. Chapter 15

Will slipped into sleep faster than Hannibal expected him to, and once again the doctor found himself chastising his own follies. He accepted certain difficulties in separating the doppelganger’s traits from Will Graham’s, yet succumbed to frustration when his anticipated expectations fell by the wayside. He pushed his hope aside to allow a moment of clarity, and sat back in his chair to consider the remaining journey ahead.   
  
There was more than the distance driven to consider. Will had been correct - there was no reason for him to remain now that both Abigail and Jack were safe from Hannibal’s influence. Hannibal needed to entice him with other wares, and without knowing how the doppelganger’s mind might be persuaded he found himself at a momentary loss. He was tempted to use illicit drugs to force the transition he’d already witnessed. He tossed this idea aside, deciding that at this moment, he would not stoop to such efforts with  _his_  Will.   
  
Not any longer.  
  
This left Hannibal with no other choice beyond pure persuasion, and he was glad for the certainty of the road ahead. He prided himself on his own appealing nature; he had no reason to lie or present a fakery, for in truth he was a happy sort of fellow who simply found beauty where others found horror.   
  
And so he found himself not watching a doppelganger or poor substitute, but his friend. And Hannibal would watch over his friend only because he was a friend, and not draw attention to his actions in the future.   
  
Now knowing that he would not drug Will, he took up the water bottle he’d offered earlier and screwed the cap tightly back into place. He stood upon no illusions of propriety, and he did not excel at resisting his own temptations. The open water was too much of a siren’s call for tampering.   
  
Hannibal moved to his bed, sat upon the covers, and dozed through the night.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
A loud, obnoxious ringing woke them hours later. He glanced at Will, who stirred at the noise with a grumble, and rose from his bed.   
  
Will jolted awake at the movement, his hand flopping onto the table between them to grope at the switchblade. He blinked several times in an attempt to clear his foggy vision, and by the time he sat up Hannibal had answered the room phone and was making a very curious face indeed.   
  
“No,” Hannibal said into the receiver, “we are not expecting anyone. I would prefer that you not send them to our room.”  
  
Will looked at the red digits on the bedside clock. Eight o’clock, and apparently they had both been roused by the phone ringing. It was gratifying to know that even Hannibal Lecter couldn’t manage to pretend he was a morning person.   
  
“Thank you,” Hannibal said. He set the phone on the cradle and straightened his shirt, pulling at either sleeve with casual abandon as he looked over at Will.   
  
He looked ready to speak. A loud, aggressive knocking on their door drew his attention in that direction, and Will couldn’t stop himself from a surge of hope. Maybe Freddie had told the others - maybe it would be the police on the other side -   
  
“Get up,” Hannibal said when the knock sounded again. “You will want to be on your feet for this.”   
  
“Who is it?” Will asked. He pushed himself to his feet, clutching the blade in his hand and watching the door. Hannibal was rummaging through his travel bag. He removed a satchel, and drew a delicate scalpel to tuck inside of his sleeve.   
  
The door rumbled under constant force now, as whoever was on the other side decided to muscle through. There had been no calls for a stand down, or any other indication that this was the police. Will glanced at Hannibal and adjusted his stance, uncertain of what to expect.   
  
“Hannibal,  _who is it_?”   
  
The doctor ignored him, and in another moment the door splintered straight down the middle.   
  
“Buongiorno,” Hannibal called to the door, and Will flipped the blade open.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Hannibal saw opportunities in every moment of his day. On occasion, the fortunes granted him made him contemplate, for a fleeting moment, the possibility that his actions were seen and rewarded.   
  
On the heels of his decision to accept Will as himself, the morning dawned with a grand opening to hasten the necessary transition. That their encroacher had found them was neither here nor there; Hannibal accepted circumstances for what they were, and intended to use this moment to show Will the part of himself previously lost. Hannibal regretted that he had not thought to bring one of Will’s guns, since the man had shown a clear preference for that particular weapon. At least Will was standing with a knife in hand.   
  
Hannibal considered this progress, and felt a thrill when the door finally gave way under the assault.   
  
“Buongiorno,” he called to the Italian on the other side, and Will deployed the blade with a grimace of recognition. Both of them were trapped inside of the small room, compelled to accept whatever fate came upon them.   
  
Hannibal considered himself a maverick of fate, forever shunting the designs society aimed at him. After all, by any rights of a civilized society, he should have been caught long ago. His continued freedom proved his internal thesis: his own actions were just, and should be shared with a friend.   
  
“Carlo,” a nasally voice called, “clear out the doorway. I’d like to say hello to our  _friends_.”   
  
  
“How the hell did he find us?” Will asked, and Hannibal hummed in response. As a profiler and professor, Will couldn’t stop himself from wanting some part of the world to make sense.  
  
Mason Verger stepped through the shattered doorway, bits of wood and flaked paint crunching under his heels.   
  
“Dr. Lecter, I didn’t expect the commute for my next appointment to be so  _long_ ,” he whined. “You really should call these things ahead, alert your paying customers.”   
  
“Hello, Mason,” Hannibal said, and Will shifted next to him. There were four bulky men behind the Verger heir, none of whom seemed interested in anything other than a solid paycheck from the eccentric who commanded them. Hannibal adjusted his sleeves, and Mason pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.  
  
“There’s a cold going around,” he said, and flapped the cloth at them. “I hear that ladies who are expecting should be extra cautious, so I thought I’d keep away from my dear baby sister.”   
  
Will jolted slightly, and Hannibal thought the look a dawning horror and guilt suited him. Apparently Will believed he had forgotten something important in his mission to save everyone except himself.   
  
“Where is she,” he growled, and Hannibal swelled with pride and fondness. Will sounded just as he should.   
  
“Oh, no need to worry about Margot,” Mason said. “She is in the best hands money can buy.” He folded the handkerchief in his hands into a small square as he spoke, his teeth holding his tongue in place in between sentences. “I said to myself, I said, ‘I really would just  _love_  to meet that man, the man who convinced my dear baby sister that what was missing in her life was a miniature Verger.’ I said to myself, ‘and I’d sure like to meet the baby  _daddy_ , too.’”   
  
Mason grinned and pushed his glasses up his nose. He spread both hands, taking in the entire scene.   
  
“And just look,” he said, beaming with happiness. “Two birds with one lucky stone.  _Boy_  am I curious about what I’m interrupting. Won’t Margo be thrilled! You’re a very  _progressive_  therapist, Dr. Lecter. Very  _method_  in your methods.”   
  
“This is going to end badly for you,” Will said. “The best, and smartest thing for you to do, would be to walk away. Right now.”   
  
Mason looked across at his men, who had all entered behind him and were now positioned in various locations throughout the small room. Two had crossed the room to flank Hannibal; Will remained between the two beds, making no effort to hide the knife in his hand.   
  
“You sound like you  _know_  something,” Mason said in a mocking tone. “Oh please, do  _enlighten_  me.”  
  
“Turn around and walk away,” Will said. Hannibal watched him with outright satisfaction, and cherished the thought that one of the men might break rank and attempt an attack on him.   
  
“Well, as interesting as that sounds, I must decline,” Mason said. “I’ll propose a new offer: you come with us, quietly, and I won’t have Carlo kill the both of you, right here. I’m sure you’d make a fantastic lover’s tableau, but really, that’s so banal.”   
  
The two Italians flanking them drew guns, and the other two certainly had the same weapons concealed on their person.   
  
Hannibal tilted his weight ever so slightly, and Will startled to attention at the bare motion.   
  
“Hannibal,” he said, “ _wait_  -”  
  
There was no further time for protests.   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Hannibal moved fast, and Will made for the door the moment all of the attention was turned to the whirling dervish in their midst. He slammed a shoulder into Mason’s chest, shoving the other man to the ground and sprinting. The Italian behind him was reaching into his coat, and Will tackled him full-force rather than wait to see what was emerging. The man fell with a cry of pain and clutched at Will’s arm, his hands both wrapping around Will’s hand, still clutching the switchblade buried hilt-deep inside of the man’s chest.   
  
“Oh my God,” he said.   
  
He had forgotten the  _knife_.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” he said, “Oh God, oh  _God_  don’t die -”   
  
The door was broken open and wide, the mouth beckoning him outside to freedom. He stayed down, pressing his hands over the wound on either side of the knife. He remembered, distantly, that the knife should not be removed, that it was better to stay inside -   
  
“Matteo!” cried a voice behind him. He turned, and it gave Matteo the moment he needed to make the ill-advised choice of tugging the knife from his chest. Blood gushed over Will’s hands, pulling his attention back to the now-spouting wound.   
  
Will heard the crack of a gunshot and the crackle of electric submission. His entire focal point was riveted downward, his hands pressed firmly over the newly created hole in the man’s chest. He had no idea if the injury was fatal; he couldn’t process much beyond his own desperation, his craving for the man’s chest to be made whole again.   
  
He was pulled away and kicked down onto his back. He argued, fighting to return to the man’s side, to keep his chest closed to the open air -  
  
Electricity sizzled through him and he fell still, blinking hazily at the ceiling. They were already dragging Hannibal out while Mason shouted demands. Shouted about a barn, and pigs, and all sorts of insanity that Will was unprepared to handle.   
  
“You think it was my idea to come here?” Will slurred to Mason’s looming figure, grasping at the last straws which might salvage his chances of escape. “You think it was Margo’s idea to have an heir, or yours to take it from her?”   
  
Mason stared down at him, an odd mixture of superiority and eagerness playing over his features.   
  
“The only thing we all have in common is the same psychiatrist,” Will said. “Think about that.” He was starting to be able to move his arms under his own will again, and flinched at the effort.   
  
“You are a curious mess, aren’t you?” Mason said, and Will knew he had him. “We could’ve have some good, funny times, couldn’t we?”   
  
“Hannibal’s the one you want to be feeding to your pigs,” Will said. He was looking at Matteo, who was still on the floor.   
  
“Load them up,” Mason said as arms looped under Will’s and hoisted him to his feet. “It’s time to have some good, funny times.” 


	16. Chapter 16

The ride was agonizingly slow, and Will tried not to notice the odd looks that Mason’s henchmen turned in his direction. Mason refused to allow any sort of awkward silence - or any silence at all - to descend inside of the van, and single-handedly maintained a one-sided conversation.   
  
“It’s not that I’m angry,” he was saying when the van hit a powerful bump. Hannibal was lying crumpled on the floor, apparently unconscious. Will alternated between hoping he was faking it, and regretting that hope when he remembered what it might lead to.   
  
“It’s that I’m curious,” Mason said. “I’m surprised  _you’re_  not curious. I know you want to ask. Go ahead and ask, I won’t mind.”   
  
Will didn’t know what he was supposed to ask. He kept his eyes fixed forward, trying to ignore the groans of a dying man toward the front of the cabin. A firm hand clamped on his shoulder, and he glanced to the side.   
  
“What, nothing? How very strange you are. We showed up out of  _nowhere_ , didn’t we? I tried to make our entrance as dramatic as possible. I thought it would fit better into your elopement.”   
  
Will clenched his jaw and said nothing. Engaging with Mason was quicksand; the man enjoyed his voice more than the content of his words, and Will knew his lack of impulse control only led to danger.  
  
“Boring,” said Mason, “so  _boring_. I’m so disappointed.”   
  
Will recognized the impending threat: if Mason was bored, he would find ways to entertain himself. The surrounding Italians looked all too eager to hear his next orders. Will spoke up to distract his attention away from the howling monkeys which must make up the man’s brain.   
  
“What am I supposed to ask?” Will remained in character, keeping his eyes down on Mason’s chin. He didn’t want to absorb this man’s thoughts.   
  
“Oh,  _oh_ , a response! I am delighted. What do you think you should ask, Mr. Graham? I’ll give you five chances, because I’m generous, you see.”   
  
Will couldn’t think of a proper question. He tried the first one he thought of.   
  
“Where’s Margo?”   
  
Mason laughed. “Oh, my dear baby sister. She’s safe of course, nice and secure and unable to exploit this particular technicality again. I have to hand it to her, I underestimated how far she was willing to go. I have to ask, was she worth it?”   
  
Will grimaced.   
  
“Oh come on, man to man. She’s not had too much experience handling men, but she’s very resourceful.”   
  
“What are you going to do with us?” Will asked, because he could see Mason wasn’t going to drop the topic without help.   
  
“Humdrum questions, Mr. Graham. I won’t dignify that with a response, that’s how dull it is. Three more chances. The life you save could be your own.”   
  
Will tried to think of something else he should ask. He looked down at Hannibal on the ground and hoped, sincerely, that the doctor was faking unconsciousness.   
  
Mason was enjoying his impromptu game. He watched Will with a snide grin, expecting him to fail at the simple task of trying to read Mason’s mind.   
  
Will thought, hard. Mason had brought up his strange entrance, beating down a door and kidnapping two grown men in the early morning light.   
  
How had he found them so quickly?   
  
 _Oh._  
  
Mason was the sort of person who wore thick fur coats and spiked his hair in odd directions. He reminded Will of a small child shrieking for attention.   
  
A sudden surge of homesickness left him clutching his chest at the ache.   
  
 _I am Will Graham_ , he reminded himself, over and over until the words drowned out the memories. The emotions he felt were too much of a diversion to remain focused on the current situation.   
  
“How did you find us?” he choked out, spitting the words in Mason’s direction and clamping his jaw shut after they were loosed. He was rewarded with a loud laugh and a clap of delight.   
  
“ _Well_. Some people say you’re psychic, Mr. Graham. Third time’s the charm, hmm? Carlo, how did we find them?”   
  
Carlo was watching Will with a disgusted scowl. His hand rested on Matteo’s chest, holding a thin hotel towel in place over the sluggishly bleeding wound. Matteo had stopped groaning ten minutes ago. Will tried not to watch for his breathing.   
  
“Bank records, capo,” the Italian said.   
  
“It pays to have friends in high places,” Mason said. “It’s sweet, really. You know where he was taking you, don’t you? Strangely considerate of him. Most peculiar therapist I ever had.”   
  
“He hadn’t told me,” Will said, because it was true and he knew it would continue the conversation. Hannibal hadn’t moved save for the rocking due to the car’s motion. Will realized he must be truly unconscious. He didn’t think the good doctor would stay down and let whatever surprise he’d planned by ruined by Mason Verger.   
  
“An honest surprise,” Mason said. “He must like you very much indeed, Mr. Graham. I don’t think I want to spoil it, but then you’ll never find out, will you? Carlo, how much longer is this damn ride? I’m getting seasick.”   
  
Carlo hit the front of the van. Six knocks responded, and he looked at Mason.   
  
“One more hour,” he said. Mason fidgeted in his seat.   
  
“On the other hand,” he said, “there was quite a lot of string in the garbage can. Too much to be kinky. Are you an unwilling participant in all of this, Mr. Graham?”   
  
“Does it make any difference?” Will asked. He knew the answer.   
  
“Of course not,” Mason said, “except that I am  _very_  curious. Don’t say something trite. I hate cats.”   
  
“I have seven dogs,” Will said. Mason raised one hand.   
  
“Point taken. How is our fallen comrade, Carlo?”   
  
Will was trying not to watch, he really was. If Matteo succumbed, it was one less distinction between himself and Will Graham. The lines weren’t blurred anymore. They were faded, washed out. He wanted to think of his family, but thinking of them made him hurt. He wanted to keep them away from here, even in his head; they didn’t belong in the presence of Hannibal Lecter or Mason Verger.   
  
Will rubbed a hand over his face and released a gruff sigh.   
  
“Aw,” Mason was saying. “We’ll send his family a care package. How about that?”  
  
Will sank further, deeper into his own head. He couldn’t see the forest for the trees. He thought of home and he saw Wolf Trap; he thought of a child and saw Abigail’s scared face.   
  
“You’re a pig, Mason,” he said in a gravelly voice. “You deserve to be someone’s bacon.”   
  
“Oh, is it time for a second wind? Carlo, prod him, would you?” Mason winked, and it was the most disgusting thing Will had ever seen.   
  
He lunged forward in the same moment Hannibal came alive from the floor, driving a fist into Mason’s smug face. The Verger heir was startled by the sudden violence, and wiry in his attempts to deflect. Will was lucky that Carlo was too busy having his throat ripped out by a set of human teeth. Of the two men in the car, Mason was the lesser physical threat.   
  
Will had beaten him down once, and he was happy to repeat the experience. For posterity’s sake.   
  
If he saw the grinning face of Hannibal sneering up at him from the floor, he paid no heed. It was just his brain playing tricks on him.  
  
Hannibal was knocking on the front of the cab; Will continued hitting Mason. The van swerved to the side, pulling over on the highway as the sounds of struggle alerted the men in front to the fight in back; Will continued hitting Mason.   
  
He hit him while Hannibal positioned himself at the rear of the van, prepared to attack the henchmen who opened the door.   
  
He hit him while their screams of pain died out in sudden, abrupt spasms.   
  
He hit him until a hand touched his shoulder, and he came up onto his feet, fist balled and eyes wild in frenzy. Hannibal raised both hands and looked down at Mason, who moaned on the floor of the cab. There was a pool of blood around his head; his face looked rearranged.   
  
“Where were you taking me?” Will demanded. He was tired of having no control over his own life. He wished he had his guns; he wished he had his dogs.   
  
“Charleston,” Hannibal said. “There is a boat waiting for us there, with enough supplies to take us wherever you would like to go.”   
  
“Trying to appeal to my past, Hannibal?” Will crowded him, and Hannibal backed away. His knuckles were split on his right hand. “You know nothing about me.”   
  
He felt powerful. For every step forward, Hannibal took a step back. Will wanted to push him from the back of the van, watch him scramble for purchase and fall a few feet. He wanted to stand as tall above as he possibly could.   
  
Hannibal seemed pleased, and he couldn’t figure out  _why_.  
  
“We’re closer to his estate than we are to Charleston,” Hannibal said.   
  
“No,” Will said. “Absolutely not.”   
  
“He meant to feed us to his pigs.” Hannibal sounded noncommittal. He wanted to see what Will would do.   
  
“I’m not cleaning up this mess,” Will said. There were three dead bodies around them, four if Matteo had given up the ghost. Mason was busy interrupting their conversation with his sputtering moans of pain.   
  
“He’s your patient, Dr. Lecter,” Will said. “Deal with it.”   
  
Will walked to the back of the truck and jumped down. His adrenaline was draining away, leaving a cold feeling of weariness throughout his body. What did it really matter, if Hannibal wanted to feed a pig to pigs? At least it wasn’t his dogs.   
  
He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to block out what felt like a strange, disjointed dream crowding into his thoughts. Will Graham had many things, and a wife and child were not among them. It was becoming strange to think of.   
  
When he thought of it at all.   
  
“Bring the van,” Will said over his shoulder.   
  
He could feel Hannibal’s relief blazing against his shoulders, and for the life of him, he couldn’t think of why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll be a short fill, I said. I can probably do it in 4-5 installments, I said. 
> 
> Hahahahaha! 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments, everyone. This story is a trip to write.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal goes for the gold.

Will found it strange that he never questioned Hannibal taking the wheel while they shared a car. Before there had been a sense of menace over their interactions, as Hannibal manipulated Will into joining him for an unwanted car ride.   
  
There was no reason to willingly participate any longer. Hannibal was travelling with five men in various stages of death or dying, packed into the back of a slaughterhouse van. If they were pulled over, Will could beg for release from an imprisonment he no longer felt.   
  
Was he here willingly? Or did he just  _feel_  like he was? His face itched, and he blamed it all, petulantly, on the man at his side.   
  
How much of this was Hannibal’s doing? And why did any of this matter? He had no reason to stay.  _He was not Will Graham._  
  
He would call the police the moment he found a phone he could use. He would call them and tell them everything.   
  
He rubbed his split knuckles against his pants and flinched at the stinging sensation. Hannibal tsked from the side; his eyes never left the road, and yet Will felt them peering across the way.   
  
“You should let me dress it,” Hannibal said, and Will shook his head again. It was too familiar; he was slipping too far.   
  
“We’re dropping them all at the gate,” he said. “Pressing the call button and driving away.”  
  
“That is what we discussed,” Hannibal said, which wasn’t agreement so much as acknowledgment.   
  
 _I am not Will Graham_ , he thought.   
  
“It’s what we’re going to do,” he said.   
  
“Hm,” Hannibal said. "You look tired, Will. Did you not sleep well?"   
  
Will Graham would respond and engage in the conversation. Will Graham  _liked_  the man sitting at his side, for reasons he couldn't begin to understand. He crossed his arms and breathed deep, letting the van's saturated smell of frozen meat and dying men fill him up.   
  
 _This is not who I am,_  he thought. He felt somewhat better when he realized that the moment they stopped, for any reason, he had already decided to run.   
  
Hannibal tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, and this time he turned his head enough to see Will from the corner of his eye. Something had agitated him.   
  
"Will, are you ignoring me?" The words might've sounded pitiful, even attention-seeking, in another person's mouth. Hannibal morphed them into a threat, and Will's shoulders tensed in reply.   
  
"No," he said, and stopped himself there.   
  
"You're very quiet," Hannibal said. "Is something wrong?"   
  
"You mean other than the portable massacre in the back?" he asked. His accent slipped, vowels darkening where they shouldn't, and Hannibal's hands loosened. He reached over with one and Will shied away, grabbing the man's wrist to prevent any further action.   
  
"I am only checking your temperature, Will," Hannibal said. "You sound exhausted." He did not sound exhausted. Hannibal's arm was lax inside of Will's wrist; he let go, and Hannibal pressed the back of his hand to Will's forehead.   
  
Any time someone had done this in his life, the hand had been removed after a few seconds of pondering, and the person checking would assert their perception of hot or cold. Hannibal left his hand in place for longer, until their respective temperatures had begun to mirror each other. When Will couldn't stand it anymore, he pulled Hannibal's hand away and tried to forget how many men he'd killed less than thirty minutes ago.   
  
"It's alright, Will," Hannibal said. "Everything will be fine."   
  
"We're dropping them at the gate and ringing the call button," Will said. "Say it back to me."   
  
"You don't trust me." It wasn't a question, so he didn't answer. Behind them, someone slapped a hand against the van. Will realized that Hannibal had left the radio off.   
  
"I find it interesting that you do not trust me, and yet you believed me, before," Hannibal said. Will tried not to rise to the bait, but he needed to know what Hannibal was talking about.   
  
"Is Abigail still in danger?" he asked, gripping his knees to keep his hands still.   
  
"No," Hannibal said, and Will sighed.   
  
"You never called about Jack," he said, more for his own confirmation than Hannibal's confession. The doctor smiled, thin lips lifting at the edges just enough for Will to call it amusement rather than mockery.   
  
"Which means that when you leave - and I know you are planning to leave, Will - his life is no longer valuable to me," Hannibal said.   
  
"I'm not Will Graham," he said, and he wished he hadn't spoken. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to say  _anything_ , but now the words and their meaning were loose, out in the open where Hannibal could no longer deny them.   
  
"What are you talking about, Will?" Hannibal didn't sound angry, or disappointed. He barely sounded concerned.   
  
"You know what I mean," he said angrily. " _I'm not Will Graham_." He'd admitted it, now it was time to drive the point home.   
  
"Are you still dissociating, Will?" Hannibal asked.   
  
" _No_ , I am not -"   
  
"Who are you?"   
  
"It doesn't matter," he said.   
  
"It matters to me, Will," Hannibal said. "There are any number of memories which you might be trapped inside of now."   
  
He couldn't say he wasn't trapped, because he  _was_. Wasn't he?   
  
"Your mind is capable of great and terrible things, Will," Hannibal said. The road was becoming congested as they neared a city, and Will thought of waving to the passengers of a smaller car next to them.   
  
"Stop it," he said in a tight voice. "You know that's not what's happening."   
  
"You've been dissociating for over twenty-four hours now," Hannibal said, as though Will hadn't spoken. As though what he'd said was irrelevant.   
  
"I have not -"   
  
"You have passed into delusions, Will. You're asserting that you are not Will Graham, that you are merely a man who looks, speaks and acts precisely like him." Hannibal sounded so patient, and tired. Will tried to make sense of it all in his mind. He  _wasn't_  Will Graham. He had memories of another life, a life that he wanted back.   
  
"You killed that man, before," Hannibal said, and Will sucked in a sharp breath.   
  
"I didn't mean to," he said miserably, and Hannibal chuckled.   
  
"Better him than you," the good doctor said, "although I am not certain that Mason won't also die. You were very angry, Will."   
  
His name was not Will. Will, whose head swam with associations and memories from dozens of others, who couldn't stop empathizing with everyone he came in contact with. Who didn't always know who he was.   
  
 _What's more likely?_  he thought.  _What makes more sense?_  
  
"I-I don't remember," he said, and pinched the bridge of his nose.   
  
"I will help you to remember," Hannibal said. He was clearly pleased, and Will shook his head.   
  
"None of that, Dr. Lecter," he said. "I don't trust any psychiatrist in my head."  
  
"I assure you, I only have your best interests at heart." A loud  _thump_  punctuated the statement, and Will turned enough to look back.   
  
"I can see that," Will said, and turned himself to face forward.   
  
“Tell me, Will. What should we do with Mason?”   
  
“What?” Will shook his head. “I told you, he’s  _your_  patient.”   
  
"Our doctor-patient relationship has been terminated," Hannibal said. "I refuse to treat a patient who would treat me as so much swine."   
  
"See a little too much of yourself?" Will knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he couldn't stop himself. It was too much, hearing a man who butchered humans and then consumed them laying a complaint against a like-minded individual. At least when Mason ate pigs, it was an actual pig.   
  
"Do not draw such comparisons, Will," Hannibal said. "You know I am nothing like Mason Verger."   
  
"It's only a matter of degrees," Will said. Hannibal's hands were tight on the wheel again. Will was pushing his luck. "You think I don't see what you're doing? I know my name."   
  
"No," Hannibal said. "You do not. It is three fifty-nine in the afternoon, and your name is Will Graham."   
  
"It's not," he offered weakly. The thudding behind them was getting louder, as though someone were standing and stumbling about the back. A series of purposeful bangs sounded right behind Will's ear, as Hannibal reached across him and pulled down the sun visor. A small, splotched mirror flipped into view.   
  
"Look in the mirror, Will, and tell me what you see," said Hannibal.   
  
Will knew this was a bad idea. He looked at Hannibal and balled his aching fist.   
  
"One glance," Hannibal said. "It will not take long."   
  
One short glance. He turned and closed his eyes. There was something terrible, and final, in the act.  _What makes more sense?_  he thought. And then,  _I want to go home._  
  
He looked in the mirror and thought,  _what's more likely?_  
  
He met his eyes on impulse, drawn to their ragged depths, and grimaced. The circles underneath only shone brighter from the relative paleness of his skin. He looked sallow, emotionally drained. Flecks of red covered his face; he scraped at one with a nail, watched Mason or Matteo's dried blood flake away, and the itching underneath stopped.   
  
His face was a mess.   
  
His hands and nails were a mess.   
  
"Who are you, Will?" Hannibal asked.   
  
"I don't know," he said quietly, and the smallest speck of belief began to form. "I-I remember -"  
  
"You must remember your own life, Will,” Hannibal said. “Remember who you are and what you have done.”   
  
He was staring into the mirror, and did not see Hannibal’s calm smile.   
  
“Remember yourself,” Hannibal said. “I have missed you, Will.”   
  
Will flipped the visor back up and scrubbed one sleeve across his face. The banging behind them was weaker, yet purposeful.   
  
“Mason says hello,” Will said.   
  
“It would be rude not to reply,” Hannibal said.   
  
His smile showed his teeth.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal loses his cool.

Twenty minutes further, when the Verger estate was almost within eyesight, Hannibal pulled the van to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Will stared straight ahead until Hannibal touched his elbow, once; he opened the door and stepped down, circling around back to meet at Hannibal's side as the doctor opened the back door.   
  
Mason was standing in the center of the cabin, wiping blood from his face.   
  
"So kind of you to stop, finally," he said, ignoring them otherwise.   
  
"I hate to be rude to a guest," Hannibal said. "I would be happy to examine your nose, if you'd like."   
  
Mason dropped a bloodied handkerchief from his nose and sniffed primly.   
  
"It's the least you can do," he said, and Will realized that even now, Mason saw himself as invincible.   
  
He turned away and let the two men have their moment. Hannibal pulled a syringe from within his coat, and approached Mason with both hands raised.   
  
"I assure you, it is only an anesthetic," Hannibal said. Will nearly turned around to warn Mason, and found himself too apathetic toward the outcome. Mason and Hannibal deserved each other.   
  
He realized that Hannibal had left the keys in the ignition of the van, and without turning to look, circled back around. He walked in the direction of the passenger's side, and walked around the front of the van rather than alert Hannibal to his movements.   
  
He sat in the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine roared angrily and he backed off, letting the van sit idling.   
  
He gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead.   
  
He couldn't run. He couldn't run because Hannibal had Jack.  
  
"Dammit," he muttered to himself, and turned when the passenger side door opened and Mason was shoved inside. He listed in the seat, head bobbing back and forth as the  _whatever_  Hannibal had given him worked its magic over his senses.   
  
"Hellooooo," he said to Will, and smiled. The creases in between his teeth were dark and red.   
  
"Smart of you to start the car, Will," Hannibal said as he closed the passenger side door. "Mason, you remember where we need to go?"   
  
"The barn," Mason said, and laughed. "They won't be hungry for  _days_."  
  
Will thought about the drugs coursing through Mason’s brain and looked across him to Hannibal.   
  
“Was that needle meant for me?” he asked.   
  
"Of course," Hannibal said, sounding confused that Will bothered to ask.   
  
Will put the van into drive and pulled from the shoulder without glancing to check for oncoming traffic. He was disappointed when the road proved to be clear.   
  
"Which way?" he asked, and Mason, in between laughter, a scathing critique of Hannibal's suit and an oddly intimate ruffling of Will's hair, guided them along the way.  
  
They did not stop at the front gate.   
  
They drove through easily, the van serving as immediate cover and Mason assuring the men at the gate that all was well. He was unfocused, hazy and clearly high on something. The guards didn't even pause before waving them all through.   
  
Will wondered just how much their salaries were.   
  
"That way," Hannibal said once they were inside. He had come here before and remembered how to locate the barn.   
  
Will remembered, too. But he couldn't think of  _how_  he remembered, and decided to keep the information to himself.   
  
"There it is, isn't it beautiful?" Mason leaned forward onto the dashboard, using his arms as pillows as he gazed lovingly at the massive wooden structure. "It's more than a hobby. It's a  _passion_."  
  
"You will show us," Hannibal said, and Will flinched.   
  
“Don’t,” he said. Hannibal raised both brows and looked across Mason’s unfocused gestures to Will’s grim, set jawline.   
  
“What do you think is happening, Will?”   
  
“I  _know_  what’s happening,” Will said. “And I’m saying  _no_.”  
  
“Hm,” Hannibal said, and Will knew he’d already lost the war.   
  


* * *

  
  
“Mason, your face,” Hannibal said. He had sat the Verger heir in the chair Mason kept inside of the barn for observation and personal entertainment. Mason was grinning wide up at the good doctor, whose face was the epitome of regret.   
  
“My face?” he asked. He raised one hand and touched the nose which Hannibal hadn’t bothered to set earlier. His eyes watered in reflex, but he didn’t react. The pain was too far away.   
  
“Your face,” Hannibal said, the picture of mourning. “How unfortunate.”   
  
Hannibal knelt down in front of the younger man, whose eyes were wide and begging.   
  
“Do you want us to be friends, Mason? To have some good, funny times?” Hannibal stroked an affectionate finger against Mason’s cheek, who nodded and blinked.   
  
“We could see the sights,” he said, splaying a hand to the side. “All the sights you could ever want to see. We’d have fun. We’d be  _friends_.”  
  
“It’s a pity, then, that you’re disfigured now,” Hannibal said. He straightened and shook his head, depressed at the false loss. Mason implored for a solution, pleaded to know how he could change it, how he could  _fix_  it.  
  
When Hannibal drew the knife, Will turned away. He stood at the edge of the pen and focused instead on the sounds of ravenous pigs feeding on the corpses of dead men. There was no pleasant soundtrack to drown out the sounds of madness around him, and Hannibal was  _enjoying_  himself.   
  
Mason had tortured his own sister for years for the sheer glee of having a victim so easily available. He tortured other children as well, all under the guise of a sleep-away camp for underprivileged children.  _He deserved what happened to him_. It was a type of fate that Will took comfort in.   
  
He understood Will Graham more in this moment than he ever had before, as he listened to Mason’s words begin to distort as the lips which formed them were peeled away.   
  
He reached under his shirt, which was now over a day old, stained with blood and sweat and dirt from the road. He pressed his hand over his shoulder, where Jack’s bullet should have left a gaping scar, and looked across at the far wall when his fingers brushed over smooth skin.   
  
 _My name is not Will Graham,_  he thought, and relief crashed through him.  _This is not who I am_.   
  
He turned to the side and began to walk to the ladder, to let himself down and leave this place. To go to the car, call the police, call anyone at all and tell them everything. The pigs would all be slaughtered; there was no rehabilitating them after this.   
  
Hannibal stopped him with a grip on his shoulder, and he turned and met the older man’s eyes dead-on.   
  
Hannibal let go. Then, he stepped aside, and Will couldn’t stop his eyes from immediately looking past him to the trembling figure in the chair.   
  
There were strips of flesh taken down to the bone, and Will could see where the deepest slice had started, down underneath his nose to split the lip. The following had come less easily; Mason's hand shook in response to the pain and blood loss he could not yet feel, and Hannibal had continued talking to him during the process, gently encouraging him to further self-mutilation long after Mason had been asking for feedback on his progress. The result was an initial confidence followed by jagged strips of ripped skin. While Will watched, Mason hacked at the upper part of his cheek and finally became frustrated when the blade apparently didn’t cut fast enough. He twisted his fingers into the wound and used his nails to tear the chunk away.   
  
Will gagged and looked away. A hand pressed over his mouth and he squeezed his eyes shut tight, shivering.   
  
“Matteo was still alive, when I checked on them,” Hannibal said. Will opened his eyes and met the doctor’s eyes, cold fury crashing through him and clearing away the disgust. Hannibal had taken the knife from Mason, and was watching Will with a blank expression.   
  
“You’re a piece of work,” he said, and Hannibal raised a hand to stop further prodding. Will scoffed.   
  
“What, am I being rude, Doctor? You’re a spoiled child. Will’s  _gone_ , Dr. Lecter, and I hope to God that he will  _never_  come back to you.”   
  
He turned away from the violence boiling inside of the doctor’s eyes and walked to the edge of the pen, looking down into the agitated pigs as they scuffled and snapped at each other. They could smell the blood above them, and the scent was driving them to further madness.   
  
He felt Hannibal's weight behind him and crossed his arms.   
  
"You going to throw him in there?" he asked, certain that there was nowhere else for this night to end.   
  
"Certainly not," Hannibal said, and reached around to press the sharp end of a needle into Will's throat. He depressed the plunger even as Will sucked in a breath of surprise and tried to fall back, only to be held in place by Hannibal himself.   
  
"Shh, Will, it is not deadly," Hannibal said, and held the man tightly until Will's limbs stopped struggling. He sagged and blinked hollowly; the pigs shone in the bright starlight, and he looked up at the galaxies spinning around him.   
  
"They don’t really belong here," he said to the stars, "but here they are."   
  
"Show me what you did to Randall Tier," Hannibal said, and handed the knife to Will.   
  
Will swayed. His fist tightened around the handle, but he was not a murderer. He had never been a murderer.  _He was not Will Graham._  
  
“Will,” Hannibal said, “listen to my voice. Listen to my words. Randall is there - do you see him?”   
  
He looked and saw Mason with his face all cut to pieces. He laughed and shook his head. The stars swayed.   
  
“ _Will_ , you must remember -”  
  
“I’m not Will Graham,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you that?”   
  
He could smell the blood in the air, the rot, the death and violence and danger. Hannibal shrank and grew; his face was a jumbled mess, more jumbled than Mason’s. He reached for Hannibal’s misplaced nose and Hannibal grabbed his wrist.   
  
“We could be stuck here,” Will said. “We’ll repeat this forever, again and again, and Will will  _never_  come back -”   
  
Hannibal lashed out, provoked beyond control. He struck Will across the face, releasing his wrist in the same movement; he staggered back, holding his cheek, and his foot came down over the edge of the ledge. With only air to brace him, he tumbled out of sight.   
  
He slammed back against the pen, and the squealing filled his head and drowned out the screams. The pen wasn’t as sturdy along the top as it seemed; the grating shuddered under the impact and sudden added weight, and he felt the wires holding him up begin to bend.   
  
He looked up at Hannibal and met those dark, desperate eyes in the same moment the wires gave way.   
  
He plunged downward; when his back hit the ground air rushed from his lungs and he gasped as he was immediately hoarded by stinking swine. He remembered the knife in his hand and fought, slashing across snouts and limbs despite the haze and confusion of the scene and his own mind.   
  
He felt that he put up a decent fight, and in the end, the pain was too far away to care.


	19. Chapter 19

He opened his eyes with a loud, hoarse gasp and saw Alana staring across the table at him, wine glass halfway to her lips, a pig’s head spilling its own cooked innards at her side.   
  
And of course, Hannibal Lecter at the head of the table.   
  
His inner voice shrieked at him  _not to panic_ , and he hissed and pressed the balls of both hands to his eyes and breathed until the urge to start screaming and never stop passed.   
  
"Will?"  
  
Alana was talking. He forced himself to listen.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asked. Her wine glass was on the table and she was standing. Hannibal reached for her arm and touched her, a silent command to stay down. He said nothing, and when she glanced into his face she paused.   
  
"No," Will said, "let her." His voice was garbled but the good doctor understood.   
  
Hannibal removed his hand, and she approached Will and placed her hand to his forehead. She felt his cheek next, and then checked his pulse in his wrist, and he thought her hands were the kindest hands he'd felt in days.   
  
He tried not to lean in. Hers were not the hands he wanted. He failed, and her eyes softened for him.   
  
Behind her, Hannibal was all fury and menace. He needed time to leash himself, and Will was too addled to determine whether he should distract Alana or alert her. He was thinking too fast to give her enough thought, and he let his mind run rampant.   
  
There was something he was missing.   
  
He had been brought to this moment twice now. This same moment, with Alana and Hannibal sharing the table, and Abigail hiding in the shadows upstairs. Two chances down; how many more might he get? Was he right, and they would repeat this, over and over until he woke from whatever this was?   
  
He was an intelligent man. He refused to accept this new reality. The answer was here. It was  _here_ , at this table, in this moment, and Will needed to find it soon or he would lose himself completely.   
  
Those first two times he had removed himself from the table, one way or another, and Alana had left sooner than she would have otherwise. Even now she was starting to hover more nervously, the symptoms of a person who thought that perhaps they were no longer welcome.   
  
“Stay,” he said plaintively. He looked up at her, his eyes dancing over her cheeks and chin, and he felt her give in before she nodded and offered him a small, helpless smile.   
  
She might have touched him again, if not for Hannibal sitting behind her, watching them together. Instead she walked back across the table to her seat, and lowered herself slowly. She looked at Hannibal, who had taken those long moments to painstakingly replace the expression of imminent threat with one of idle concern.  
  
The doctor smiled at her, reassuring her with a companionable lie, and Will closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose.   
  
His phone began vibrating a moment before the traditional sound of a ringing telephone interrupted them. Will fumbled in his coat and drew the phone out, accepting the call as he stood from the table and walked to the far corner of the room in a minor attempt at courtesy.   
  
“Graham,” he said.   
  
“Will,” Freddie said, “what in the  _hell_ -”  
  
“Not a good time, Freddie,” Will said. Behind him, the quiet conversation between the two psychiatrists stopped. He didn’t bother turning to see their expressions.   
  
“What is going on?” Freddie demanded. “Does he have Abigail? Was that real?”  
  
“Yes,” Will said shortly. “I’m fine with you coming over tomorrow, as agreed.”   
  
The pause became uncomfortable.   
  
“Is he there?” she asked. Will said nothing, and Freddie huffed.   
  
“I’m calling Jack,” she said, and disconnected the call.   
  
“Tomorrow,” Will said, and pretended to end the call. He turned and shrugged at Alana and Hannibal; Alana’s eyebrows were raised in concern, while Hannibal looked like murder.   
  
Will sat back down, took up his utensils, and smiled at them both.   
  
“Freddie is very determined,” he said. “I don’t think I considered that when I made a deal with her.”   
  
“That is a very polite way to call her annoying,” Alana said. She didn’t bother hiding her outright disgust. “Freddie is leading her own investigation.”  
  
“How relieving that there is nothing for her to find,” Hannibal said. Alana’s eyes jerked in his direction, then down to her wine glass as she raised it for a sip. Will clenched his jaw. Freddie had found something, and Alana had listened, despite her reservations regarding the source.   
  
Hannibal would notice. Will speared a section of pork and lifted the meat to his lips, taking his first bite of Hannibal Lecter’s cuisine. The flavors were robust and heady. He tried not to react, as disgust and pleasure fought within his mind. He tried to remember who this might be and couldn’t call up the images.   
  
He swallowed, and the corner of his mouth twitched.   
  
“How do you find it, Will?” Hannibal asked. “It has been years since I last butchered a whole pig, especially one so fresh as this. It is easier to work with small pieces, but the flavor of fresh slaughter cannot be replicated.”   
  
“It’s delicious, Hannibal,” Alana said. She had taken a bite a moment after Will, and smiled when Hannibal looked at her. He nodded, satisfied with her praise, and turned again to Will.   
  
Will lifted a second forkful, and Hannibal smiled.   
  
“It’s good to see you, Will,” Hannibal said. Will raised both eyebrows while Alana’s face twisted in confusion. “I have missed our conversations, unimpeded by animosity.”   
  
“Will tried to kill you,” Alana said with some temper.   
  
“Perhaps,” Hannibal said. “Although considering Matthew Brown’s other works, I am not sure that Will was to blame for the attempt.”   
  
Alana looked over at Will, who looked at her scowling mouth.   
  
“Did you try to kill Hannibal, Will?”   
  
“I’ve never tried to kill Hannibal,” Will said. It wasn’t a lie.   
  
Neither of the psychiatrists present decided to argue the point, and Will took a third bite of his food while they argued silently across the table. He tried not to think about pigs, human or otherwise.   
  
The food was delicious.   
  
Will’s phone began ringing again, and he set his utensils down and shrugged helplessly while he answered. He stood and walked to the same corner as before, this time not bothering to greet his caller, knowing that there was no need.   
  
“Is it true?” Jack asked immediately when he could hear that their phones had connected. Will tightened his fingers on the plastic and glass, glancing once at Hannibal, who was watching him while wholly engaged in conversation with Alana.   
  
“What’s that?” he asked, and Jack’s voice took on a strange quality. Will realized he was doing his best not to yell.   
  
“Does he have Abigail?” Jack sounded like he was ready to chew through solid stone.  
  
“Yes,” Will said. He knew Jack expected him to elaborate, and let the silence continue until the agent sighed.   
  
“She alone will be enough for - you know that, don’t you Will? You know I’ll need to interrogate her, hard.”   
  
“Yes,” Will said, this time more clipped. “Alana is here.”   
  
“Alright,” Jack said, “I’ll involve her.” Will was glad that they had developed a repertoire of subtext- in another life, Jack would’ve been howling his ear off by now.   
  
“Keep everyone there, I’m sending men over now. Can you do that?” Jack sounded both pleased and disappointed.   
  
“We’re in the middle of dinner, Jack,” Will said. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”   
  
“Twenty minutes,” Jack said, and disconnected the call. Will hung up and pressed his index finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, sighing out stress.   
  
“Is Uncle Jack begging for your help again, Will?” Hannibal looked smug, and Will nodded to avoid snarling at him.   
  
“I don’t think you should continue your work with him,” Alana said. “It’s not healthy for you.”   
  
“Is that your  _professional_  opinion, Dr. Bloom?” Will let a rush of anger, frustration, resentment and downright fear speak for him, the words harsh and guttural as he took out the past few days on her all at once. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything when he saw hurt flow over her features. He remembered her soft hands, and felt like an utter bastard.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he offered helplessly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”   
  
“It is,” Alana said, recovering faster than expected. “Both of the psychiatrists at this table have failed you in one way or another, Will, but I don’t want you working yourself back into a collapse.”   
  
“Strange,” Will said. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who doesn’t want that.”   
  
“I would like to see you well, Will,” Hannibal said. “That is all that I have ever worked for.”   
  
Will checked his phone. Fifteen minutes in; the sirens would start to seep into the air soon, and then Hannibal would be backed into the same corner as before, where he had slaughtered those closest to him. Abigail was upstairs; Alana was within striking distance and Will knew the good doctor was fast enough to bridge the gap between himself and Will in a shockingly short amount of time.   
  
Will suspected that if the sirens were the first sign of betrayal, Hannibal’s rage would be swift and deadly. He had to warn the doctor, to prepare him for the inevitable. He looked at the double doors behind Hannibal, where snow was falling in thick, cloudy tufts, and cleared his throat.   
  
“Hannibal,” Will said, “they know.”


	20. Chapter 20

When Hannibal met his eyes, Will thought he had never looked more serene than in this unshaken, naked moment of human vulnerability.   
  
The doctor was not thinking of attacking - he was thinking of fleeing. His hand never twitched toward the knife nearby, nor did he so much as glance at Alana, who was asking Will what “they” knew. Instead, Hannibal merely rose from the table, collected and calm, and asked to excuse himself. He walked toward Will rather than to the kitchen, and paused at Will’s side.   
  
“Will you come?” he asked, seeking out the furtive glances Will shot against the wall, the floor, his shirt - anywhere except Hannibal’s face. A hand rose into Will’s vision, on the side, and cupped behind his neck, gently.   
  
Hannibal looked so damn  _pleased_ , and Will remembered that this was before Freddie Lounds, before sharing a meal consisting of long pig and the last vestiges of his dignity. This moment, here, was the confirmation which Hannibal so ardently sought - undeniable proof that Will Graham was on his side, had been on his side for weeks now, and would forever more be willing to stand with him against the world.  
  
He had to tread cautiously.   
  
“You will come with me, won’t you?” Hannibal’s hand tightened protectively at the base of his head, where the spine met the skull, and Will fought off a body-wide shudder. He saw movement over Hannibal’s shoulder, at the edge of the table, and let his focus shift back enough that the image coalesced from blurred, ill-defined lines into Alana.  
  
Her expression was painful tragedy. She was standing with her hands at her sides, smart enough to keep the table in between herself and the two men across the way.   
  
“Hannibal,” she said with a breaking voice, “where will you go?”   
  
It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Alana was a profiler, too.   
  
“That is none of your concern, Alana,” Hannibal said. Will saw the moment she shifted from abandoned lover to psychiatrist, and shook his head slightly. The look she gave him before speaking could only be called exasperated.   
  
She had been so close to realization during this dinner, and Will wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. She’d been suspicious - loyal to a fault, but doubtful enough to begin questioning them both, right to their faces. A united front of logical fallacy, just two men who had at the very least failed to prove themselves as anything beyond adversaries.   
  
One simple push in the right direction, and Will found himself an ally he’d never expected to have so soon.   
  
“Don’t run,” she said. “We can help you - I can help you, if you’ll let me.”   
  
“As you helped Will?” Hannibal dropped his hand and stepped away from Will, turning in the same movement to face her. Will remembered that at this point in the timeline, she did not have a gun.   
  
He reached into his pocket as sirens emerged in the distance. He pulled his fisted hand free when Hannibal took a step forward, and wrapped one arm around the doctor from behind. He flicked the switchblade open and brought the edge to Hannibal’s throat, shaking with the effort of doing more than merely think the threat.   
  
Hannibal paused rather than froze, and Will growled deep in his throat.   
  
“We’re going to stay right here,” he said, “and wait for the police to arrive.”   
  
“No,” Hannibal said. “I’m afraid we are not.”   
  
Even knowing it was coming, he was still shocked at the speed with which Hannibal moved. An elbow jammed itself into his solar plexus; he crumpled forward, into the good doctor’s frame, and earned a sharp shot to the nose for his troubles. He staggered back into the wall, holding his nose with both hands, and realized too late that the switchblade was gone.   
  
“Alana,  _run_ ,” he shouted, although the clacking of heeled shoes signified that she hadn’t waited to see the outcome of this struggle.   
  
“ _Don’t go upstairs,_ ” he screamed, and hoped he wasn’t too late. He shifted his weight and opened his eyes to rush forward in the first direction he leaned. He lurched straight into the good doctor’s arms, and found himself caught in a tight bear hug, arms pinned to his sides by a more powerful force.   
  
He rasped and tried to remember how to breathe evenly. Hannibal rested his chin on his shoulder, and Will saw the blade flashing light in his peripheral vision.   
  
Not gutted. Not yet. The betrayal hadn’t had time to steep.   
  
“No one can help you,” Will said into Hannibal’s shoulder. “We both know that. You won’t be changed, it’s not worth it to try.”   
  
“So you would take my freedom for nothing?” Hannibal wasn’t asking a question, so Will didn’t answer. He watched the light in Hannibal’s hand glimmer and tried to think of what he could say to keep the violence he felt shivering through the doctor’s body contained within the shell.   
  
The sirens were closer.   
  
“I’m not taking anything,” he said carefully, slow and steady, watching the knife’s edge tremble. “At this point, if you get caught, it’s your own fault.”   
  
“This life is over for me,” Hannibal said. “I would like to think I gained something.”  
  
“Am I not enough?”   
  
Hannibal pulled back and braced Will’s head in both hands, one set of fingers unevenly curled around the switchblade handle. He searched Will’s face; Will kept his eyes flat on Hannibal’s nose.   
  
“I’d like to think we were friends, once,” he said, and Hannibal  _smiled_.  
  
“I have always been your friend, Will,” Hannibal said.   
  
It was at this moment that Alana, barefoot and wild, slammed the business end of a cast iron skillet into the left side of the good doctor’s skull. Will gasped and stumbled back into the table, gripping the edge in both hands and watching her with cautious approval.   
  
“Good God, Alana,” Will said. She reached down and picked up the switchblade. Will straightened when she faced him head-on.   
  
“How long?” she asked, and stopped before clarifying. He understood why; Will Graham wouldn’t need to know the entire question to understand what he was being asked. Will made a big guess and hoped for the best.   
  
“Since after Chilton,” he said. She looked down at Hannibal, who was groaning quietly rather than fully unconscious.   
  
“Who else?” she asked.   
  
“Jack,” Will said. He watched the knowledge hurt her slowly, as she realized both the depth of distrust aimed in her direction and the caliber of people who made the decision to side against her.   
  
“What’s upstairs?” she asked, and this time Will flinched and turned his face away. “Will, tell me.”   
  
“Don’t you mean who?” he hedged.   
  
“Is it Freddie?” Alana creased her brow. “Did she find something up there?”   
  
Will laughed quietly. “No, it’s not Freddie.”   
  
“Dammit Will, this isn’t twenty questions.” Alana was angry and armed. The sirens were right outside; the weight of inevitability settled on his shoulders, as Hannibal slid one arm a few inches to the side.   
  
Toward Alana’s ankle.   
  
Will kicked the good doctor in the head.   
  
“That’s for how well you cared for mine,” he snarled at the man on the floor, who now lay still.   
  
“ _Will_.”  
  
“It’s Abigail,” he said. Alana didn’t believe him; it was written all across her face, down to the quiver in her hands. “Leave her alone; let the paramedics find her. Alana,  _no_ -”   
  
Alana was already moving. The front door was kicked in and suddenly the room was chaos. Men rushed in with Kevlar and guns; Will raised both hands and fixated on the badges worn by the officers who trailed the strike team.   
  
Something was wrong. Their badges were on the wrong side of their uniforms. The  _wrong side_ -  
  
“I think we have a lot to discuss, Mr. Graham,” Mason Verger said as he stepped into the room. “Don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: 1. there is a pattern to who remembers what's going on. Thoughts on what it might be? 
> 
> 2\. I am writing this entirely for the audience, which begs the question and vote: continue for much longer or seek a conclusion soon? 
> 
> Thank you for kudos and comments, everyone!


	21. Chapter 21

"So, this is a little awkward," Mason said. "I mean, not for  _me_ , but really, I find you in the most interesting scenarios, don't I, Mr. Graham?"   
  
He stepped further into the room, Matteo and the others training their weapons on both Alana and Will.   
  
"Is he your psychiatrist too?" Mason asked Alana, rubbing his palms together. "I can understand it, really. He is  _very_  unconventional."  
  
He looked at Will.   
  
"Helped my relationship with my sister, of course, and she's so grateful for it, too. And  _you_ , Mr. Graham. I remember  _you_."  
  
"I've never met you before," Will said, and Mason laughed.   
  
"Cute," he said. He snapped his fingers to the side and pointed. "Check upstairs."   
  
"There's no one upstairs," Will said.   
  
"Better to be sure," Mason said. "Load them all up. We're taking a little trip."   
  
Will flinched, glancing at Alana, listening to the sound of men's boots ascending to the second floor, and threw all of his cards onto the table.   
  
"That's a bad idea, Mason," he said. "It didn't go well for you last time."   
  
"Last time?" Alana asked, and Will wished she were more of a coward.   
  
"How true," Mason said. "I really should kill you, but this is the most fun I've had in years. Fascinating, really, and very out of the box."   
  
A sharp scream from upstairs made both Alana and Will jolt toward the door, and stop at the loud clicking of guns being readied to fire.   
  
"Leave her alone," Will begged, because what did he care if he begged?   
  
"You're in Schrodinger's dilemma, Mr. Graham," Mason said. "Damned if you do and damned if you don't."   
  
"That's not how Schrodinger's theory worked," Alana said.   
  
"This is what happens when you let them learn things," Mason said. "They start thinking they can talk back."   
  
The sounds of a struggle were getting closer, and at least one man cursed and exclaimed, "Mi morse!"  
  
"Leave them here and we'll come," Will said, nudging a toe at Lecter. "Leave them alone."   
  
"Now now, we talked about this. I'm not about to make a stupid mistake like  _losing leverage_  stand in the way of -"  
  
Hannibal moved fast, he  _always_  moved fast, and Will dove to the side and pulled Alana down to the floor as gunshots echoed around them. The doctor tackled Mason directly in th stomach, and the gunmen around him shifted uneasily, unwilling to shoot their employer. Their shouted demands took on notes of shock and fear, and Will grabbed Alana's shoulder to entice her to stand and  _run_.   
  
"Up," he hissed into her hair. "We need to move."   
  
"But Hannibal -"  
  
" _For God's sake, Alana_."  
  
She struggled to her feet and didn't look back, bolting for the stairs where three figures struggled in the darkness. Alana wrapped her arms around the one on the lowest step and pulled him backwards, leading to a strangled cry of surprise. Will ascended enough to see the faces of the other two, and his fist sailed past Abigail's wide eyes to connect with the forehead of the second man. His balance was impaired due to the angle of the stairs, and he fell with a shout.   
  
Alana took Abigail's hand and pulled her out of the scene, turning them both so that Alana's body shielded Abigail's smaller frame from harm. Will shoved his knee into the second thug's stomach and pulled at the gun in his hands until the man let go. He rolled to the side, wheezing, and Will pressed the barrel against the first thug's temple as he tried to rise from the floor.  
  
"Give it," he said, and took the offered gun with a glower.   
  
“It’s alright Abigail.”   
  
Will turned and met Alana's eyes over Abigail's thin shoulder. Alana had the girl in her arms, stroking gently at her hair. Abigail kept both eyes shut tight, blocking out the events around her in the easiest way possible.   
  
Abigail wasn't crying. She wasn't making any sound at all.  
  
"Abigail," Will said, "gun." He held out the weapon and waited for her to turn enough to acknowledge him. Alana clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to stop him, but there were still more threats in the nearby dining room.  
  
Abigail took hold of the weapon and her eyes hardened into clear focus. She looked at Will and smiled, slightly.   
  
"Hi," she said.   
  
"Hey," he said. "You OK now?"   
  
She nodded. They both looked at Alana, who stood lost and confused in the world she'd been thrust into without a care for her state of mind.   
  
"Alana, we're going to get you out of here," Will said. "Jack's on the way with backup."   
  
"Abigail," Alana said, and Will saw the clouds gathering in her mind.   
  
"We don't have time," he said. "Alana.  _Alana_. We don't have time for this."   
  
"How long have you known?" Alana asked. She looked shaken enough to break.   
  
"It's complicated," he said, and began looking for a back exit to take advantage of. The women followed behind, and finally Abigail stepped ahead to take the lead, realizing that Will wasn't navigating well on his own.   
  
"How many times now, Will?" Abigail was watching his hands closely. He looked down, and realized they were shaking.   
  
"I-I'm not sure," he said. "I'm starting to lose the thread."   
  
Sirens again. This time it had to be Jack and his team. Will ignored the sounds behind them - screams, shouts, the sounds of bodies falling.   
  
 _I don't care,_ , he reminded himself.   
  
Except that he did.   
  
"Dammit," he grumbled, and Abigail grabbed his forearm and shook her head.   
  
"We can't just leave him," he said plainly. He couldn't remember why this sounded wrong anymore; the shouting had died down, and the sirens were right outside.   
  
"I helped him cut her up," Abigail said in a desolate voice. "I helped him with the panes, and the display."   
  
Will flinched while Alana blanched.   
  
"You're saying you want him dead," Will said.   
  
"I'll never have the life I was supposed to," Abigail said, "but maybe I can get close."   
  
When she wasn't overcome by fear or desperation, she was paralyzing. He looked down at this girl, this young woman whose strength had so captivated her father's mind that he'd taken his obsession out on others who resembled her, and understood so wholly that for a moment he lost himself completely. The urge to claim, and devour, and make one - he saw it completely, and saw that very same role reflected from Abigail's eyes.   
  
Abigail saw her father in him, and didn't look away.   
  
"Will you help me?" she asked. Her eyes were large and expressive, her face open. He couldn't deny her anything, not even leaving his side, and it was killing him,  _killing them_  -  
  
"Of course," he said.  
  
"Will, you can't be serious," Alana said, and he flinched and braced one hand against his face.   
  
"No, no, of course not," he said quietly. He didn't actually know what he was denying, but Alana's stern tone of voice was enough to convince him.   
  
His phone rang, loud enough to make him jump, and he answered with a gruff "Yeah?"   
  
"Will?" They could all hear Jack's voice in the next room, and looked up in time to see his figure block the doorway. He hung up the call and stared at Abigail, who had faded into the timid creature he needed to see.   
  
"What happened here?" Jack asked. Will and Alana looked to each other while Abigail looked down.   
  
"Mason Verger came by for a chat," Will said. "It didn't go well."   
  
"I can see that," Jack said. He was eyeing the gun in Abigail's hands. Alana reached to take the weapon, and Abigail gave it up with no struggle. "I have a few questions for all of you, starting with where's Dr. Lecter?"   
  
Will snapped to attention.   
  
"He's not there?" He didn't wait for Jack's reply; he stormed forward, shoving his gun into Jack's hands as he passed, and found the scene next door in disarray. Mason was gone; his henchmen were all over the place, sometimes smeared across the walls. The only ones left alive were the two who had been dragging Abigail downstairs, by sheer luck of the draw. They were currently being forced to kneel as handcuffs were slapped over their wrists.   
  
Hannibal, of course, was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

Sitting across from Jack was a lesson in the power of trepidation. Jack had his fingers steepled and tipped against his chin, staring straight across the table where Alana and Will sat next to each other. A solid space hovered between the three of them, and Will was consciously aware of both sets of eyes continuously enticing him to look at them, to bridge the gap and make a connection.   
  
He curled his hands against the arms of the chair and read Jack’s placard for the thirteenth time. He’d started to pick out the small imperfections within the lettering. The mangled spacing between the “W” and the “F” was starting to personally offend him.   
  
“Abigail is with Price,” Jack said when neither Will nor Alana filled the silence. “He’ll do a toxin screen on her, per your request, Will.”   
  
“She might need to titer off whatever he gave her,” Will muttered. Alana shifted in her chair, and both men carefully kept their focus elsewhere.   
  
“I can help her transition, Jack,” Alana said.   
  
“We’re going to need to know what kind of trauma we’re dealing with,” Jack said. “And if she played a role in any of the murders following her disappearance.”   
  
Will couldn’t stand the rising tension anymore. He jolted from his chair and made for Jack’s door; the head of the BSU hollered for him to  _stop and sit down_. Will stopped, but kept his back to both of them.   
  
“Will,” Alana said, and he rounded on her because he wouldn’t dare face the thunderous face behind her.   
  
“I told you I didn’t kill anyone. I told  _both_  of you.” He chanced a glance at Jack, who remained seated.   
  
“I told everyone Hannibal was a killer, and  _nobody_  believed me,” he said. He met Jack’s eyes dead-on, which made the older man flinch ever so slightly.   
  
“I guess you believe me now,” he said, and left the room.   
  


* * *

  
  
He hated this bathroom on sight. It was designed to mimic a specific bathroom from a particular movie, and when surrounded by cameras and crew the experience was an exhilarating homage.   
  
In reality, it was simply a very red bathroom, and associations demanded that he begin to imagine blood running down the walls or out of the tap. He wiped a wet paper towel over his face, unwilling to sink to the level of plugging a shared bathroom sink to dunk his face into.   
  
He wondered why he  _cared_  so much, and worried about what it meant.   
  
 _I’m not Will Graham,_ , he reminded himself, and felt his unmarked shoulder as proof. The bathroom door opened and he looked to the side, unwilling to allow someone to sneak behind him.   
  
Freddie Lounds let the door shut behind her and crossed her arms.   
  
“Thanks for calling Jack,” he said as he tossed the towel into the trash. “Probably saved my life, again.”   
  
He hadn’t thought to induce pity in her with his statement, but her face softened nonetheless. She stepped closer and he raised both arms to allow for a closer inspection. She went straight for the shoulder, pulling the shirt aside to see the smooth skin underneath.   
  
She dropped her hands and stepped away, confusion and wariness battling for dominance.   
  
“I’m not Will Graham,” he said carefully.   
  
“I noticed,” she said. “He never would’ve let me touch him.”  
  
Will -  _not Will_  - shrugged.   
  
“So, how do we get Will Graham back?” Freddie asked.   
  
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for caring much about that,” he said, and she raised her eyebrows.   
  
“At the end of the day, Hannibal Lecter is very good at what he does,” Freddie said. “Which is killing, in gruesome and creative ways.” When Will didn’t deny this information, she smiled slightly. “Don’t be offended, but you’re doing a shit job of handling the situation.”   
  
“You’re welcome to try,” he said. He didn’t have enough energy to sound angry or annoyed. To his own ears, he sounded defeated.   
  
“I could waste a lot of time trying to figure out who you are, but it’s not a story I can sell to the general public,” Freddie said. “Mass murdering foreigner doctor? That’s hot cakes.”   
  
“Also a cannibal,” he said, and watched Freddie try to take in this information with some semblance of grace.   
  
She failed.   
  
“Oh my God,” she said, and then looked mortified at the lack of professional poise. Will smiled a little.  
  
“You’d better work on that,” he said. “You’re a vegetarian, so it won’t hit you as hard.”   
  
“Why would that…” She stopped, and slapped her mouth shut. She blinked twice, her wide eyes twitching in reflexive denial.   
  
“Abigail ate at his table for months,” Will said, and that did it. Protective ferocity straightened Freddie’s spine, and her sharp mind got back to work as the scared, waffling woman became a determined reporter on the hunt for the story which would put Hannibal Lecter down in the public eye.   
  
“He could be on a plane right now,” she said.   
  
“He could,” Will said, because he did not know where the good doctor might be. He had suspicions; he knew Hannibal had taken Mason, and there was a possibility that at this moment, Will Graham’s house was a horror show.   
  
Will had suggested as much to Jack on the way back to the BSU, and the FBI were on their way to check for that very scenario. It was out of his hands.   
  
“There has to be some kind of key,” Freddie said.   
  
“To what?” he asked. At some point he’d leaned against the wall. He crossed his arms and wondered why that word was trying so hard to jog a memory.   
  
“To whatever  _this_  is,” Freddie said. “We know how to reset the loop -”  
  
“Let’s not,” Will said, and she only nodded.   
  
“- but what about closing it?” Freddie sighed. “Obviously people knowing what’s happening makes no difference.”   
  
A memory teased and taunted him from the periphery, and he was slammed with an overwhelming sense of conviction.   
  
“Abigail,” he said. “It’s Abigail.”   
  
“Why her?” Freddie asked, clearly humoring him.   
  
 _Abigail is the key to a great many doors for him_ , he’d said in Hannibal’s nice warm study, negotiating the terms of their agreement.  _He had set the rules_.  
  
“Whose life is the most affected by all of this?” he asked himself, warming to the idea. It made sense. It made  _sense_. “When I - we -  _Hannibal_ , when he got involved in her life, it was ruined. It will  _still_  be ruined - Jack knows about the other girls, about Nicholas Boyle. He thinks she might’ve been involved in other murders -”  
  
“Was she?” Freddie couldn’t manage compassionate anymore, settling for outright intrigue. Will clenched his jaw and she nodded. “Alright. Abigail, then. Is this about fixing her life?”   
  
“I’ll fix what’s left of it,” Will said. “I’m still her guardian, after all.”   
  
“Legally, so is Dr. Lecter,” Freddie said, and Will tried his best not to wince.   
  


* * *

  
  
The evening had ended poorly, and Hannibal stomached some regret over the mess he’d been forced to leave untouched in his home. The home itself meant little to him, although he had spent a great deal of time amassing fine paintings and statuettes in order to appeal to his own aesthetic senses. He saw beauty in all things, and surrounding himself with such wares had given him consistent pleasure.   
  
Now he found the same beauty in the mutilation of Mason’s body, strung up among meat hooks along with several of his precious herd, his bowels emptied and his viscera properly segmented and weighed. Hannibal had been careful to assign accurate market values to each portion, based on the Verger estate profit margins. The grinning rictus of the exposed jawbone contributed a shock of bleached white amid the pale skin and darker blood, and Hannibal laughed to think of how the FBI would struggle to identify the swine organs from the human.   
  
They would have to resort to testing each piece. He regretted that he would no longer be able to see the inner workings of the FBI, as watching Price and Zeller struggle through their daily tasks without Beverly by their side encouraged his mood.   
  
He stepped from the back of the cold storage van and closed the doors, listening for the latch to seal in the temperature. He had used several hours to finish this particular display, concerned with several small details which would implicate Mason’s cruelty toward his younger sister, as well as their father’s. Once the links were made, she would find legal routes easier to harness to her needs, though she would ultimately have to decide how willing she was to wage that battle.   
  
He would not rob her of the choice, but he would give her the opportunity.   
  
He checked his watch and considered the slew of options available to him. Will was undoubtedly with Jack and his team, and Hannibal couldn’t guess at what sorts of conversations were going on within the hallowed halls of the FBI. Alana was likely dissociating herself from the situation and handling her guilt and pain by focusing on helping someone else. The most likely candidate to center her efforts on was Will, whom Hannibal knew would reject her assistance.   
  
That left Abigail, which Hannibal considered an acceptable compromise. Abigail had been kept alive for one primary purpose, and if Will could be persuaded once, Hannibal was confident that he could manage a second time. With Alana distracted with a freshly minted victim, and Jack and his team soon to be concerned with interpreting a new crime scene, Hannibal thought his own path to Will’s mind would be once again clear.   
  
He would have Will Graham at his side before departing completely from the life he had meticulously created.  
  
Hannibal dialed from Mason’s cell phone and listened to the ringing on the other end. Freddie Lounds picked up on the second ring, and her greeting was clipped and professional. He expected Jack to be alerted within an hour of this phone call.   
  
“Miss Lounds,” he said, “I believe you would be interested in my latest work.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delays, guys and gals. Between vacations, work, graduate school research, and the holidays, this will probably be a little slower to update for the next bit. The good (?) news is that we're nearing the end.

The doppelganger was more stubborn and persistent than expected.   
  
Hannibal liked to consider himself a patient man, though his patience only extended as far as his irritation would stretch. Those who were rude in his presence were often left untouched, while those who targeted him directly were added to the ever-growing pile of gourmet luxuries. He afforded himself time and anticipation as a trade-off for the necessity of timely murder, and rewarded his own cleverness with beautiful displays which, until recently, had only been truly appreciated by himself.   
  
Will Graham could look upon his work and recognize the methods used during construction, the subtle crafting, the deliberate palette of colors which either highlighted or shielded lesser elements of the tableau.   
  
Hannibal was intensely proud of his creations, and visited them often within his memory palace. Now when he inspected the fruits of his labors, Will's voice accompanied his surveillance, guiding his considering toward conclusions and pathways even he, as the artist, had failed to notice in his own work. Like an author listening to others deconstruct his work, Hannibal drank in Will's perceptions, and considered himself lucky for having found another being so like himself.   
  
He was painfully aware of the weaknesses this introduced. In so many ways, Hannibal was a man whose foremost audience was his own perception, and it was mere coincidence that his tastes and preferences aligned with high society. He was not unconcerned with the perception of others - indeed, he was hyper-aware of their observances, and performed accordingly. However, Will Graham saw and appreciated a side of himself which no human being on Earth was aware of. There was no longer an audience of one, splaying ironic punishments and messages written in flesh and later amusing himself at the expense of law enforcement. Now there was a secondary observer, one who saw dimensions and layers which no one else could.   
  
Hannibal was in the rare position of wanting to  _impress_  someone, and he was entirely uncomfortable with the undercurrent of reliance. He had never cared when Jack discussed his work with disgust or dismay - Jack was merely a friend, and Hannibal was in plentiful supply of those. Jack's opinions held no sway over his emotional state. In contrast, Hannibal felt a nervous flutter along his spine each time Will discussed one of his structures, and if Will had spoken of them with anything other than reserved respect and appreciation, Hannibal's disappointment would have been crushing.   
  
It was possible that he simply  _liked_  Will and wanted to earn his respect, as a friend, through a particular and highly personal medium. He sometimes rehearsed conversations ahead of time, planning out his reactions should the profiler's opinion sway one way or another, and his own guiding suggestions. He was an encyclopedic font of information, which made conversations easier to steer and point in the direction he wanted, and Will was often too literal in his actions to realize the manipulation.   
  
The most effective form of manipulation was one which the subject was completely unaware of, as Hannibal well knew. It was such fundamental knowledge, and yet Hannibal had forgotten his own composure in the space of a few days of lost opportunities, resorting to chemical stimulation at great cost. He missed his friend, and that loneliness had turned to immediate desperation when that friend was taken away.   
  
He liked to think he was better than that.   
  
Hannibal understood the rules of the new world he was now subject to, and meant to exploit one idiosyncrasy as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He wasn’t concerned about the outcome, for he had already seen the end results. If Will’s doppelganger could not die, then Hannibal could not kill him. Murder became a temporary change in state rather than a permanent consequence, which turned it into another tool which Hannibal could employ in his manipulations.   
  
Simply put, He would give this new version of Will Graham a choice, and leave it to the doppelganger to determine if one choice was expanded to a series of unfortunate choices, all culminating in the inevitable conclusion that working with Hannibal Lecter was both better and less painful than working against him.   
  


* * *

  
  
“Will?”   
  
Will closed his eyes and rubbed both hands over his face, sighing in resignation. Alana had found him quickly, since after the bathroom there was only one other location available that he was familiar with in this building. He stood outside the labs, grateful that there was no active case filling the room with macabre sights.   
  
This conversation was inevitable, despite his attempts to avoid it, and so he settled instead for a wary glare in Alana’s direction as she approached him.   
  
“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said. She neither flinched nor backed off, which probably spoke more to the broken, tired tone he’d spoken in than her own nerves.   
  
“You’ll speak with Freddie Lounds but not me?” Alana smiled a little. “There’s a first.”   
  
“I could be trite and say things have changed,” he said. He couldn’t stand the hurt in her expression, or the shaking of her hands. He couldn’t stop his innate compulsion to try and soothe her pain, despite knowing that a good deal of her pain was not his fault.   
  
“You could,” she said, “but then you would have to admit that you can be trite.”   
  
“What a tragedy that would be,” Will said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. It was safer to keep his eyes focused down, where he didn’t have to acknowledge the world around him.   
  
“Look at me, Will,” Alana said. He flinched and jerked his head once, denying her request.   
  
“C’mon,” she said. She sounded so gentle. “I have something I need to say to you.”   
  
He turned his face up and met her eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry, Will,” she said, and he looked down again. Her hand came up into his vision and touched his cheek. He fought the instinct to push her away, settling for closing his eyes again.  _If you can’t see me, you can’t affect me…_  
  
“I owed you better. We all did. Your instincts had never been far off. When you pointed to Hannibal -”  
  
“I didn’t see him, either,” Will said. He sighed. “It took months for the veil to fall.”   
  
“It’s much harder to suspect a friend,” Alana said.   
  
“By the time all of this is over, he won’t have any friends left,” Will said. He regretted saying it when he saw the spark in her eyes.   
  
“Why not, Will?” she asked. “What else has he done?”   
  
Jack knew. Brian and Jimmy knew the suspicions. Alana did not know. She had been kept out of the investigation.  
  
“I’d rather not talk about this right now, Alana,” he said, putting as much wariness into his voice as he could. He already knew it wasn’t enough; she dropped her hand and geared up for another question, and he wondered how close the ladies’ bathroom was.   
  
“Will!” Jack’s voice echoed down the hallway, and he turned to watch the larger man approach with outright relief. Freddie Lounds trailed behind him, staring straight at Will, who tensed in anticipation of what was coming.   
  
“Tell me there’s nothing in my house, Jack,” he said, and Jack’s sudden bafflement consoled him.   
  
“No,” Jack said. “Lecter contacted Miss Lounds with the potential location of a new crime scene. She has elected to remain here -”  
  
“Close to you, Mr. Graham,” Freddie said. She smiled and it didn’t reach her eyes. “I feel strongly that the story is here.”   
  
“I did promise you an exclusive,” he said.  
  
“I’m going to need you with me, Will,” Jack said.   
  
“You can’t be serious, Jack,” Alana said. They all stood ready for her to continue, but she had said her piece - incredulity, disbelief, and a healthy heaping pile of judgment aimed squarely into the center of Jack’s forehead. He rubbed the spot unconsciously, and flattened his lips. Will took a step away, to allow them the space needed to tear at each other.   
  
“Wherever Will goes, I go,” Freddie said, and the argument was already over. Jack knew he could convince Will to come with him willingly. No one could convince Freddie Lounds of doing anything she didn’t want to do, which meant her declaration was a promise: wherever Will Graham went, she would follow.   
  
“What did he tell you, Miss Lounds?” Jack was resigned, and a small part of Will enjoyed hearing his defeat.   
  
“He gave me the address, and said that Margot Verger would need a talented publicist.” There was outright hunger in the reporter’s voice, and Will admired her a little for having life so clearly conquered.   
  
Then he remembered her fate, and had to look away.   
  
“He’s killed Mason Verger,” Will said. “If you need a motive, Mason abused his sister - horribly. Hannibal did not approve.”   
  
He couldn’t remember if Hannibal had already taken on Mason as a client at this point in the story. He couldn’t remember a lot of things. Calling up  _home_ was getting trickier. He was absurdly grateful to Freddie for both believing and acting upon her belief. Without her validation, he might have forgotten himself altogether.   
  
That was what Hannibal wanted, which was all the motivation Will needed in order to continue his resistance.   
  
“Alana -”  
  
“I’m staying here, with Abigail,” Alana said. Jack let that fight go.  
  
“We’re splitting up,” Freddie said. “Is that wise?”   
  
“I’ve already seen what he does to Mason,” Will said. “I’m done with the experience.”   
  
“He told you his plans?” Alana asked. Will and Freddie gave her matching looks of irritation, and she creased her brow.   
  
“Go check on Abigail, Dr. Bloom,” Will said. “Someone needs to make arrangements for where she’ll be staying.”   
  
Alana accepted the dismissal gracefully, turning on her heel and breezing into the labs in the direction of the examination rooms. Will pushed off from the wall and rolled his shoulder.   
  
“I guess it’s you and me,” Freddie said.  
  
“Isn’t that a scary thought,” he said in his own voice. He winked at her shocked look and offered a hand forward in formal introduction.   
  
“This is a bad idea,” she said as she shook his hand.   
  
“Call me Ishmael,” he said, and she smirked.


	24. Chapter 24

"Are you going to tell me your name?"   
  
Freddie sat across from him at Will Graham’s table while he drank two fingers worth of whiskey. At least Will Graham indulged in the good stuff.  
  
"No," he said, and smiled at her frustrated huff.   
  
"Well then,  _Ishmael_ , how do you suggest we proceed?"  
  
"We wait," he said after another sip.   
  
"Wait for what, exactly?"  
  
"One guess, Freddie," he said in Will's voice. "He has a very particular obsession," he added in his own.  
  
"It's not impossible to fake that accent," Freddie said. "I've done it myself."  
  
"How proud you must be of yourself," he said.   
  
"If I hadn't seen it myself -"  
  
"What did you see?" He was honestly curious.   
  
"What do  _you_  see?" She didn't bother to hide her outright hunger to know, and he appreciated the honesty.   
  
"I don't see anything," he said, still in his own voice. "Try not to be philosophical about it."  
  
"Hard to avoid. That's quite the revelation for a believer." She was smiling, on the verge of laughter. He rolled his eyes.   
  
"What a shocker," he said, "Freddie Lounds is an atheist."  
  
"I say agnostic to avoid awkward conversations with my parents," she said. He laughed, and she leaned back in her chair, relaxing her posture. "I think I like you better. Can we keep you?"  
  
"God, I hope not," he said. He frowned into the newly emptied glass, but placed a hand over the top when she offered to pour him more.   
  
“I don’t think he’s been sober since his release,” she said, and Will smiled through a sigh.   
  
“He certainly wasn’t sleeping well,” he said. She crossed her arms in a pose that couldn’t quite be called casual.   
  
“How much do you know about what’s happening here?” she asked. He couldn’t blame her; she was a reporter, after all.   
  
“More than anyone else,” he said, tapping his fingers against the table. “More than Hannibal.”   
  
“More than Will?” She wasn’t leaning forward but he could see that she wanted to. She wanted to impose herself into his space in the hopes of drawing out a reflexive reply. He kept his eyes on the table and watched her shift her weight from the corner of his eye.   
  
“Yes,” he said after a long, pensive pause. “More than Will, as well.”   
  
There was a moment where he thought he’d lost her, that she would throw herself from the table with a shout and declare herself done with this charade. He raised his eyes to watch her as she processed the image of watching someone in what appeared to be Will Graham’s body discuss Will in the third person, as though he were a separate entity, dissociated from the curiosity before her. It was too much, too overwhelming and outside of the realm of possibility.   
  
He saw the moment she fought her own conclusion that Will Graham had finally lost what little mind he had left. He understood the sentiment. This  _was_ insane, and Will Graham was known for that particular trait.   
  
He watched the debate rage across her features, until they smoothed into a blank line. She’d decided to continue to believe, for now. Eventually he might find the bridge too far.   
  
“I appreciate your support,” he added belatedly, because he thought it might help. She closed her eyes and gathered strength. He pursed his lips and waited her out.   
  
“I don’t know how much I can take,” Freddie said.   
  
“I know exactly how you feel,” he said, and won her pity for it. He refused to call this a victory, and sipped his whiskey instead.   
  


* * *

  
  
Hannibal realized far too late that Abigail should have died all those months ago, trapped in her old kitchen with fate smiling down at her trembling face. He had kept her only as a gift for a reluctant Will, the final nail in the proverbial coffin of the man’s moral compass.   
  
He took issue with the doppelganger’s declaration that he did not understand the depth of Will’s feelings for the young woman saved by Will’s first murder. Hannibal understood all too well how deeply those sentiments dug into the profiler’s yearning for fatherhood. He’d kept Abigail for him in order to exploit those feelings.   
  
And yet, Hannibal knew better than to trust that this connection alone would bring Will fully into his grasp. He’d had unrestricted access to Abigail’s malleable mind for months now, and shown her Will’s released trial footage and every article regarding his imprisonment and subsequent release.   
  
He’d watched the guilt pile up inside of the young woman until her fingers trembled when she touched the clippings and pages, and she asked to read Freddie Lounds’ vicious online articles in privacy. Hannibal allowed this because they both knew he was granting her a privilege, and the lesson needed no reinforcement to stick.   
  
He admired how she pretended her eyes were not reddened and sore over their shared meals, and sometimes let her nurse her mental wounds in private, free from his piercing stare.   
  
They spoke of many things on days without news to torment her with. He drew clear parallels between himself, Will and her father, careful never to dissociate the murderer from the paternal instincts. The three men would remain linked together indefinitely for her, without outside interference, and Hannibal did not intend to allow Alana the ability to pick apart the work he had done.   
  
He was already in Port Haven when the women arrived, waiting patiently for Alana to leave. Dear Alana, who believed so thoroughly in the system that had failed both Abigail and Will Graham that she delivered the young girl right back into the welcoming arms of her incompetent caretakers. At the very least, Hannibal found their security lacking in any sort of efficiency. Abigail had never struggled to escape this place, and Hannibal found no difficulty in entering.   
  
Unacceptable, and so very disappointing.   
  
He was concerned that Abigail might ask Alana to stay for a long while, perhaps even through the night. In the end, Alana’s car departed three hours later, as Abigail fell back into old habits of seclusion and personal isolation in the face of sustained trauma. Hannibal had been careful with the girl, never pushing beyond where he sensed her boundaries, and she responded well to his manipulations with minimal drug enhancements. In the end, he only needed to keep her calm; otherwise, she remained open and willing.   
  
Tonight required something more firm, and he regretted that she would not know of his presence. Hannibal excelled at delicacy when it suited him, and faced with the prospect of discovery and capture, he erred on the side of caution.   
  
Her evening meal came as requested, delivered to her door and left for her to pick at when she was able. She ignored the food of course, but drank the provided soda with half-lidded eyes. Hannibal had never allowed such an indulgence, and she thought herself subversive for drinking it.   
  
She was dead asleep a quarter-hour later.   
  
Once again, Hannibal took advantage of the terrible security, this time with a young woman in tow. It was a simple deception, barely worth the time it took to assemble the patient ruse, and when he wheeled her through the back doors where few employees monitored he decided to send a letter to the head of the institution with a detailed checklist of suggested improvements to their system.   
  
Abigail never woke, and though she drank the entire soda he injected her again the moment she was laid out in the back seat of his car. The drive was over an hour, and he intended for her to stay down the entirety of the trip and beyond.   
  
Despite her unconscious state, he tuned the radio to a station he knew she enjoyed, and began the long, dark trip to Wolf Trap, Virginia.


	25. Chapter 25

Waiting was easier than he’d anticipated, and it was because of, rather than in spite of, Freddie’s presence. She peppered him with questions which ranged from broad enough to be safe to inconceivably specific.   
  
“What’s your wife’s name?” she asked when the hour struck, as though she’d been timing herself. He tried not to look surprised and drummed his nails on the table.   
  
“How?...”  
  
“I’m a reporter,” she said. “It’s my job to notice.”  
  
He said nothing.  
  
“You’re avoiding talking about your personal life as much as possible,” Freddie said. “I would talk about myself constantly, to remember what’s going on. Especially with someone who already knows.”  
  
He pursed his lips and kept silent, willing her to stop.   
  
“You have someone to protect,” Freddie said gently, and he flinched. She waited him out.   
  
"I'd rather not," he admitted. "Anything but that."   
  
"I'm not great at small talk," she said, and he laughed.   
  
"I could've guessed that," he said. She took it as a compliment and smiled. She opened her mouth to speak again, and stopped when lights passed across the wall behind his head, beaming through the window.   
  
"Upstairs," he said, " _now_."  
  
"He'll know I'm here," Freddie said.   
  
“Probably,” he said. “Now go up.”   
  
"No," she said.  
  
"Freddie, go upstairs," Will said. She ignored him and he grabbed her arm. She cried out as though he were hurting her and he let go immediately with a murmured apology. He realized she'd been lying when she shot him a startled glance.  
  
"If I didn't believe before, I certainly do now," she said.   
  
"Will wouldn't want to hurt you," he said, and wondered at his impulse to defend a lost cause of a reputation. Freddie looked skeptical anyway, and he dropped the subject and pointed to the stairs. She walked to the piano and sat on the bench facing the door. He gave up and went to open the door before the approaching shadow outside had a chance to knock.   
  
"Hannibal," he said, and stepped to the side to let the taller man pass. Air shifted as he brushed by, and Will shivered when the doctor tilted his head at Freddie.   
  
"Miss Lounds," Hannibal said, "I'm surprised to find you here."   
  
"Why is that?" she asked, arms crossed and defiant. She was daring Hannibal with her presence, and Will wished he'd told her not to come at all.   
  
"I thought you would prefer to discover Mason's predicament," Hannibal said. "Is that not your profession?"   
  
"I'm a reporter," she said. "I go where the story is."   
  
"She finds me interesting," Will said with a sad smile. He was echoing his own words -  _Will's words_  - and the thought brought him no comfort.   
  
"As do I," Hannibal said. "What a strange parallel."   
  
"I think you'll find that Freddie doesn't find the same aspects of me interesting," Will said.   
  
"Of course not," Hannibal said. "Who else could know what I know of?"   
  
"I haven't killed anybody," Will said.   
  
"You've tried to kill me," Hannibal said. "I consider that a fine achievement."   
  
"Is this how he always speaks with you?" Freddie looked between the two men, nostrils flared. "It seems exhausting."   
  
"It is," Will said, and the lines around Hannibal's eyes tightened. He didn't like hearing that. Will considered repeating himself to bother him further.   
  
"I know what you know, Hannibal," Freddie said. "I know our Will is gone."   
  
"That is quite impossible. He is standing right here." Hannibal's hand settled on Will's shoulder, and Will flinched at the touch. Hannibal removed his hand with a slight  _tsk_.  
  
"My apologies, Will," he said. "I forget that you are not fond of touch."   
  
"Just yours, Doctor Lecter," Will said. "I've seen what you can do."   
  
"We both have," Freddie said. "Stop calling him Will. We all know the truth."   
  
Freddie could see what Hannibal was doing. Will wanted to hug her even as he wished she would stop talking to protect herself.   
  
"The truth, Miss Lounds?" Hannibal was expressionless, putting on no airs. He loomed in the room in Will's vision; his shadow danced on the wall.   
  
Were those horns?...  
  
"Yes," Freddie said, "the truth. He's not Will Graham."   
  
"Your dissociative episode is ongoing, Will?" Hannibal sounded so damn  _reasonable_. A sliver of doubt flashed in Freddie's eyes.   
  
"No," Will said. "I'm not dissociating. I'm not Will Graham."   
  
"It's a very severe case," Hannibal said to Freddie. Her eyes were starting to cloud over with doubts and questions, and Will shook his head. "Similar to your blackouts last year, do you remember?"   
  
"The ones you induced?" he ground out, rubbing a hand over his face. "I remember  _that_."  
  
"What are you talking about, Will?" Hannibal glanced at Freddie, who wavered between belief and disbelief. A tight-wire of an alibi. "I would never harm you."   
  
"Like you never harmed Abigail?" Will couldn't stand this. His head was swimming; he'd had too much whiskey, or perhaps not enough. "Leave. Get out of my house."   
  
"You've been drinking," Hannibal said. He was guiding Will to the couch, and helped the younger man sit before Will understood what was happening. "I can't condone such behavior, Will."   
  
"He only had a glass," Freddie said. She was all red, from head to toe. Her eyes were white holes in the center of a sea of red, and Will suddenly realized what was happening.   
  
"You were in my house," he said, and then, "Freddie,  _get out_."  
  
"It's not possible," he said to the stag.  _Why could he see the stag?_  "It's not possible. Always a step ahead. How does this keep happening?"   
  
"Rest now, Will," Hannibal said from across the ocean. "The morning brings fresh opportunities."   
  
"But I want you to be dead  _now_ ," he said, fervently, with all of his heart. Hannibal's smile in response was terrible.   
  
"Dear boy," he said, and stroked hair away from Will's forehead as the clouded eyes closed. "There's potential in you yet."   
  


* * *

  
  
That Freddie Lounds served at the sole audience to this offered a fountain of amusement for Hannibal. He had always enjoyed her writing, and he distantly admired her courage for what it was. Misplaced ambitions served their function well when channeled appropriately.   
  
"And so the question becomes, what to do with you, Miss Lounds?" Hannibal stood from Will's side and turned to face her. He didn't appear to notice the gun aimed at the center of his chest. "I am certain that you have offended enough for this to be justified."   
  
"He's not Will," she said. The gun was shaking. At best, she would strike his shoulder, if she were lucky enough in her shot. "I know he's not Will."   
  
"He has convinced you," Hannibal said, "as he convinced Abigail. I had to sedate her for the journey."   
  
He was casual, speaking of his travel plans with two unconscious and unwilling participants. Freddie stepped back when he stepped forward.   
  
"They are both very damaged, Miss Lounds," he said. "Too unsafe to reintegrate into society."   
  
"You think you'll help them?" she asked. Conviction was easy to converse with as long as she avoided trying to convince him otherwise. She was talking to madness, and she'd done this before many times. She knew how to draw out information while avoiding provocation.   
  
"You heard his tales," Hannibal said. "I believe I am qualified to help him, and Abigail as well. I suggest you do not attempt to stop or follow me, Miss Lounds. Stay, and write your story."   
  
"This story is better," she said. "You're taking them somewhere to help them, aren't you? Why couldn't I come and report on your efforts?"   
  
Hannibal drew himself up and narrowed his eyes. "You pity him," he said. It wasn't a question.   
  
"Don't you?" Freddie asked.  
  
"No," Hannibal said.   
  
"Abigail," Freddie said. "Leave her with me."   
  
"Goodbye, Miss Lounds." He turned her back on her and she fired once; he felt the rush of momentum as the bullet passed his ear and drove into the wall before him.   
  
He turned and met her eyes. She hadn't meant to miss.  
  
"Abigail," she said, so much less sure of herself now that her voice quaked in fear. "Leave her with me."   
  
Hannibal moved fast, rushing her before she realized the danger. He knew this dance well, snaking behind her while she tried to twist him back into her sights. She was smaller than Beverly Katz and weaker; her slender wrists fit neatly into the cups of his hands.   
  
"Let go of the gun," he said in the same tone as before. "Or I will break your wrists until you can never write again."  
  
The gun clunked to the floor and lay still, a dead, useless thing without a human hand to guide it. Freddie was struggling not to cry. He felt her heaving breaths and wondered after her courage.   
  
"Are you a whiskey drinker, Miss Lounds?"   
  
"No," she said. She wasn't answering his question; she was rebelling. He chuckled into her ear.   
  
"What a pity," Hannibal said as he transferred her second wrist into one hand. His palms were massive compared to her tiny frame; he easily captured both wrists, and could fit a third if she had one. He briefly considered how ornamental she would look with her back flayed open, skin sewn to her arms and head tilted back. A little sparrow flitting into the sky to proclaim the morning's news. He pressed his other hand to her delicate throat and she stretched to the tips of her toes in a feeble escape attempt.   
  
How deeply he wanted to scrape her raw.   
  
"Choose the whiskey, Miss Lounds," he said. He didn't hide the stark hunger in his voice, the craving he felt to skin her alive. She trembled so sweetly. "I assure you, it is the better option."   
  
He needed her asleep; he couldn't trust her not to follow otherwise, and he wanted her to live for another purpose.   
  
"Abigail," she began, and he squeezed her throat to stop her.  
  
"No, and do not ask again," Hannibal said. "You are wasting my time."   
  
"He's not Will," she said in a quiet rasp around his hand. "He'll never be Will."   
  
"We will see, Miss Lounds," Hannibal said.   
  
She didn't fight him, in the end.  
  


* * *

  
  
The gentle, soothing sound of ocean waves lulled him into groggy, resentful wakefulness. Will opened his eyes and found himself staring at a wall, not more than a few feet away from his face. He was lying on his side; the sound of splashing waves was behind him. The air was chilly, and he abruptly remembered that the season was set during the winter.   
  
"Charleston," he murmured, and covered his eyes with one hand. "A boat with supplies."  
  
"Enough to take us wherever you would like to go, Will." He didn't turn to see the doctor sitting nearby. He could picture it well enough.   
  
"Abigail?" he asked.   
  
"She is here, and safe," Hannibal said. Will thought to ask after Freddie, and decided he didn't want to know. Not yet.   
  
"Fate always seemed like such a faulty premise," he said instead. "What's the point of free will if you have a destiny anyway?"  
  
"God has been known to revoke his gifts," Hannibal said. "He might be as fickle as all the rest."   
  
Will sat up. He was in the same clothes as yesterday, or perhaps the day before - he didn't know how long he'd been asleep, and if he were awake now, then that's how Hannibal wanted him.   
  
"Is Abigail coming with us?" he asked. He turned as he spoke, draping his legs over the side of the cheap cotton comforter. Hannibal had his back to the sunlight streaming in from the patio doors. He looked down on Will from across the room, and Will wiped his eyes until the horns receded.   
  
He had yet to feel afraid.  
  
"I meant for her to," Hannibal said. "I thought that would be your preference."   
  
"I would prefer she be safe," Will said.   
  
"What safer place than with her fathers?" Hannibal asked. Will rubbed a hand over his face, and Hannibal smiled at the gesture.   
  
"I suggest you make peace with the idea," Hannibal said. "I have no intention of living a life alone, when God has given me such a gift."   
  
The ocean waves lapped at the sandy shore, kicking up small debris and frothing as they turned over themselves. Will felt cold.   
  
"I don't want this, Hannibal," he said. He watched the waves at Hannibal's back, which shimmered in the clear sunlight. Hannibal's shadowed figure remained still.   
  
"I don't," he repeated, a little louder, with more force. Didn't Hannibal believe him?   
  
"I knew that Abigail alone would not convince you," Hannibal said. He advanced now, and Will stood to meet him. He backed away despite himself, and met the wall. Hannibal stopped before touching him, and Will tried not to look at the blade in his hand.   
  
"I'm not Will Graham," he said, and Hannibal only smiled.   
  
"Dear Will," Hannibal said, "still dissociating. I will dig inside of you until I find you and bring you out, where you belong."   
  
He wanted to lash out, but if Hannibal killed him nothing was gained. The knife was a constant, silent threat, and Will had an idea of where this was going.  
  
"And if we live a full life together?" Will asked. He needed to know how far this went.   
  
"Then we shall live it again," Hannibal said. "I will not squander the opportunity given to me, Will."   
  
Fear bubbled and broiled inside of him.  _Forever_  hovered in the air between them. Hannibal would never let him go.   
  
"I don't want that," he said, "I don't.  _I'm not Will Graham._ "   
  
"You'll frighten Abigail," Hannibal said. "Do I need to sedate you again, Will?" Hannibal barely moved as he spoke, a statue of indifference. Will shook his head. He didn't want to sleep through Hannibal's plans, and the good doctor was not above it.   
  
He shuddered when Hannibal stroked his hand on the side of Will's head, drawing him close. An intimate, brotherly gesture that spoke of affection and attachment of the worst kind. Will couldn't meet his eyes.  
  
"You understand now, don't you?" The blade was gone inside of Hannibal's coat; the threat had passed, for now. He hadn't been sure of how Will would wake, and so had taken necessary precautions. "You understand me better than anyone ever has."   
  
"I understand you perfectly, Dr. Lecter," Will said. Goose pimples rose along his neck and arms. "Where is Abigail?"   
  
He wasn't certain that he appreciated Hannibal's leash being a person, a young woman with a name and a long life ahead of her, if Will played his hand well enough.   
  
This was not the life he wanted. He was struck with homesickness, powerfully, and the emotional weight pushed him to the floor. His eyes blurred; he couldn't see past the screaming in his own head.  _I want to go home. I want to go home. Home home home -_  
  
"Will, you must calm yourself." Hannibal's voice rang from all sides.  _Who is Will?_  
  
"Claire," he said in his own voice, a broken, pleading thing. Hannibal did not wait to hear more; the needle was in him before the sob was out.   
  
"Don't - don't touch me -"   
  
It was too late. The room tilted sideways, and he heard a woman's sigh as blackness closed in.   
  


* * *

  
  
He saw Abigail when he woke again. She was sitting on the bed next to him, twisted to look outside at the rising waters. The tide was coming in.   
  
"That's a very pretty dress," Will said. His voice was slurred and his mouth was dry. He saw a glass filled with water on the side table, and sipped until his head began to clear.   
  
"Hannibal gave it to me," she said. She hadn't looked at him yet. He could see her body swaying, ever so slightly. The doors were closed; there was no breeze in the room.   
  
"Are you alright?" he asked, knowing it was a stupid question.   
  
"I'm fine," she said. When she looked at him, her eyes were hazy. "Hannibal is taking care of everything."   
  
"I'll bet he is." Will stood, and found that his balance was off. He sat back on the bed and held his head in his hands. He rubbed at his forehead and grunted, trying to push the sloshing feeling away.   
  
"Are you Will?" she asked. He looked up to meet her eyes. She wasn't quite lucid.   
  
"No," he said in his own voice. "I'm not."   
  
She looked back to the ocean. "He won't accept that," she said. Will thought about that truth, gnashed it between his teeth. He abruptly felt calm, and understood what he had to do.   
  
"He won't," he said, and smiled when she looked at him again. This time he saw the silent plea, and the fear, and the distant hope.   
  
"I think it's time to play his game," he said, and Abigail looked away. 


	26. Chapter 26

When Hannibal returned later to their shared quarters, it was to the sight of two completely docile companions. Abigail sat at the table while Will stood at the stove of their small, barely functional kitchen. The smell of fried fish permeated the air, and Hannibal wondered where the fish had come from.   
  
"You cooked for me last time," Will said over his shoulder. "I thought I might return the favor."   
  
"Where did the fish come from?" Hannibal asked. He removed his outer coat and hung it by the door, stepping further into the room. Abigail had no utensils on the table in front of her, nor a place-mat. The table hadn't been set at all, and was severely lacking decor.   
  
"Will went fishing," Abigail said.   
  
"Can you set the table, Hannibal?" Will asked from the stove.   
  
The task befitted him, if he was denied the pleasure of cooking itself. Hannibal proceeded to roll up his sleeves and smiled at Abigail, who returned the expression in kind. She was no longer hazy, merely calm.   
  
"Of course, dear Will," Hannibal said, and began to pull forth the meager offerings of a beach front condominium. All of the patterns were terribly garish and ocean-themed. He settled on a coral tone with plastic fish shapes embedded into the place-mat. He was suitably horrified to discover a matching dish set, which he ignored in favor of a muted blue.   
  
He was happy, and hoped that Will felt the same.   
  
“It’s fish tacos without the tacos,” Will said. He flipped the closest filet and shrugged in apology. “Not your usual standards, Doctor.”   
  
“I am certain that we will all enjoy what you have provided from the sea,” Hannibal said. “If nothing else, the meat will be very fresh.”   
  
Will paused at that, then covered the action with another flipped filet. Hannibal glanced at Abigail, who was watching Will’s back.   
  
“The freshest,” she said as a weak joke, and Will chuckled.   
  
“We might have made a mess earlier,” Will said. “Gutting a fish isn’t a very delicate process.”   
  
“I did most of it,” Abigail said. “I’ve cleaned game before.”   
  
“She knew a few tricks I didn’t,” Will said. “Showed me where to cut the cleanest.”   
  
“That explains the scent of pine-scented fish offal,” Hannibal said, and both of the others laughed.   
  
“We were hoping you wouldn’t smell the fish underneath,” Will said. He placed one fried filet onto one of three plates next to the stove, then followed with a second and third. He stirred a pot of rice mixed with various vegetables, checking the texture, then spooned a heap of the mixture onto all three plates.   
  
Will picked up two of the plates and turned to bring them to the table. He paused when he saw Hannibal behind him. The doctor took both plates and then balanced the third against his forearm.   
  
“You have done enough,” Hannibal said, and carried the plates to the table. He set the first before Abigail, who thanked him, and the second at Will’s place across from her before setting down his own plate.   
  
Will pulled a pitcher of ice water with slices of orange inside from the refrigerator. He poured all three of them a glass and sat, the pitcher on the table between them.   
  
“There’s no bread,” he said apologetically.   
  
“It’s quite alright,” Hannibal said. “I should have brought some.”   
  
“Where were you?” Will asked. “You were gone for a while.”   
  
Hannibal had greatly debated that decision with himself. In the end, he knew he needed to trust Will to act as himself rather than some stranger, to further encourage Will’s participation. Much like a wild beast cornered into submission, Will would resist the most when he felt as though he had no choice.  
  
And so Hannibal had left them both, and found himself pleasantly surprised upon his return.   
  
“I had arrangements to tend to,” Hannibal said. Will speared a piece of fish with his fork and considered, hesitating against a question he wanted answered.   
  
“You may ask,” Hannibal said. He ate his first bite of Will’s cooking, and found himself surprised at the competent flavors.   
  
“Arrangements related to the boat?” Will asked. Abigail had already dug into her rice, and sipped at the orange-flavored water. The suggestion of Spring and summer hovered over all of them, in stark contrast to the winter chill outside. Hannibal wondered if Will had meant to evoke the future with this meal, or if the profiler had simply craved something fresh and pleasant.   
  
“Yes,” Hannibal said. “I feel we will make better time than anticipated, and this is not the season to watch for hurricanes.”   
  
“How big is the boat?” Abigail asked. Her eyes glowed with youthful curiosity, and Hannibal smiled at her.   
  
“We will have room to spare,” he said. “I had anticipated at least one canine companion aboard.”   
  
Will flinched and looked down, prodding at his meal.   
  
“I trust you to find more, Will,” Hannibal said.   
  
“I don’t think any will be jumping on board when we’re at sea,” Will said. He continued picking at his food, and finally pushed away from the table with a quiet excuse. He touched Abigail’s shoulder as he passed her.   
  
He did not touch Hannibal’s.   
  
“He’ll be alright,” Abigail said when the thin screen door was closed. “He just misses them.”   
  
“I cannot understand his attachment to them,” Hannibal said.   
  
“He can’t understand your attachment to him,” she said, and sipped her water. 

* * *

  
  
“Where in the hell  _are_  you?”   
  
Freddie sounded nearly panicked. He could hear Jack and Alana in the background, feeding lines to her in an attempt to persuade him to give more information. From what he could hear, Freddie was ignoring every suggestion.   
  
“Tell him we need a location,” Jack said, his voice muffled.   
  
“Is Abigail OK?” Freddie asked.   
  
“She’s fine,” Will said. “He won’t hurt her unless I stop cooperating.”   
  
“How long do you plan to cooperate?” she asked.   
  
“I’m already breaking the rules,” Will said. “It’s lucky he’s so easily bored. I’m on borrowed ‘just wanted to see what would happen’ time right now.”   
  
“The phone,” Freddie said. “He doesn’t know you have it.”   
  
“I don’t think I was meant to find it,” Will said. “He put it on vibrate instead of silent. Tell Alana thanks for the calls.”   
  
The phone was jostled; Freddie squawked a protest, and Jack’s voice suddenly filled the earpiece.   
  
“Where are you, Will?” Jack asked. “You need to give me a location.”   
  
“I don’t know, Jack,” Will said. “He said Charleston, but all I’ve seen is the inside of a condo.”   
  
“Can you give me anything?”   
  
“Flight confirmation,” Will said. There was a long pause, and then Jack made a quiet huffing sound.   
  
“You’re enjoying this,” he said, barely concealing his anger. “Tell me where.”   
  
“I’ve forwarded the emails to you, Jack,” Will said. “Your email was in his phone.”   
  
“Can you hold him?”   
  
“No,” Will said, and disconnected the call. He heard the screen door creak behind him a moment later, and turned to toss the phone into Hannibal’s hands.  
  
“Jack knows about the flights,” he said as he passed by Hannibal to re-enter the condo. “I thought you might want to say goodbye.”   
  
Hannibal’s hand grabbed his elbow and he stopped, raising both eyebrows as he met the doctor’s sharp stare.   
  
“Why would you call Jack?” Hannibal asked. Violence hovered over them both: a subtle shift in Hannibal’s posture, the twitch of his hands. Will smiled, bright as sunlight.   
  
“Why wouldn’t I, Doctor Lecter?” He tilted his head. “Don’t you want to see what will happen?”   
  
“Not as badly as you, it seems,” Hannibal said, but he was nearly smiling as he spoke.   
  
“Jack needs to think I’m still on his side,” Will said. He rubbed the bottom half of his face, scratching his palm across the beard there. “Now I’ve given him a chance to find us.”   
  
“Uncle Jack does not easily let go of those he considers his responsibility,” Hannibal said. The ocean tide washed in heavily; the rushing water nearly drowned out their conversation. Abigail would not easily hear them from inside.   
  
“He does eventually let go,” Will said. “He let Miriam Lass go, and he’ll let me go, too.”   
  
“Not unless he considers you a lost cause,” Hannibal said.   
  
“Or dead.” Will smiled faintly out at the ocean.   
  
“Do you want to be dead, Will?” Hannibal looked out to the water as well, impassive.   
  
“You might have ruined that with Abigail and Miriam,” Will said. “Jack won’t believe it unless he sees a body.”  
  
“A body is easily supplied,” Hannibal said.   
  
“You know that killing me won’t work the way you want it to,” Will said. “You can’t threaten me with that anymore.”   
  
The waves crashed in and washed out, crashed in and washed out. Will felt a sudden flash of knowledge and inspiration; he straightened, looking out at the ocean, and couldn’t keep the smile from his face.   
  
“You can’t threaten me with  _any_  of them anymore,” he said, dropping Will Graham’s voice like the dead weight it had become. His stance was relaxed, casual, even cheerful. He was close to laughing.   
  
“It doesn’t matter what you do and whom you do it to,” he said. “I have all the power here.”   
  
Hannibal was watching him with tight lips and narrowed slits for eyes. He looked serpentine and deadly, and Will did laugh at him now.   
  
“That’s what you didn’t want me to see,” he said into the ocean breeze. “You’re not God anymore, and you make a poor devil. Do you think this might be your punishment?”   
  
“We should go in,” Hannibal said. “Our dinner will be cold.”   
  
“Stuff that,” he said. “I’ll stand here as long as I please, and you’ll let me, Hannibal. You’ll let me, because you have no choice.”  
  
Hannibal said nothing.   
  
“All this time you had me fooled.” He couldn’t stop laughing; relief made him giddy, gleeful, gloating. “I forgot our deal, didn’t I? And you wanted me to.  _I remember now_ , Dr. Lecter.”  
  
“Will,” Hannibal said, and Will slashed down a hand, cutting him off before he could start yet another maze of inner turmoil and doubt.   
  
“ _No_ , Dr. Lecter,” Will said. But he wasn’t Will; he had never been Will. He shed the skin of Will Graham completely, leaving no stone unturned, and shook his head at the good doctor. He might have felt a little sorry for Hannibal, save for knowing who the man really was.   
  
Hannibal looked like murder and rage. His fingers twitched terribly; his body leaned forward, imposing without conscious intention. He was not used to an outcome he could not in some way control. Will saw the moment Hannibal considered killing him; the doctor’s eyes fell to his throat, his hands raised halfway. They stood in a suspended moment of death, Hannibal craving nothing more than to ring his throat until he submitted and knowing that was exactly the wrong approach.   
  
Hannibal lowered his hands and exhaled. Will-not-Will stepped into the man’s defeat not as a fellow predator, but as a victor.   
  
“The keys to your car, Hannibal,” he said, opening the door and stepping inside the condo. “Abigail, we’re leaving right now.”  
  
“Will,” Hannibal said. “You can’t leave.”   
  
“I can and I will,” he said. “I’m not the one who’s trapped, Hannibal.”  
  
He took the keys from the counter and handed them to Abigail, who left to start the car without a word. Will-not-Will looked at Hannibal, who had sat at his place at the table, hands splayed flat on top.   
  
“It’s you,” he said. “You’re trapped here until I let you go.”  
  
He leaned against the counter.   
  
“There’s some things that have to happen, that can’t be skipped. I missed it every other time.”   
  
He pushed off from the counter and approached, arms lazily crossed. Nothing of Will Graham was left, and Hannibal only watched him with an impassive stare.   
  
“Stay, Hannibal,” he said. A car horn honked from outside. “Stay for an hour, and then go.”  
  
“It doesn’t need to end this way, Will,” Hannibal said. He tried to hide the note of pleading in his voice; Will-not-Will did not acknowledge it anyway.   
  
“You’ll be alone until you’re not,” Will-not-Will said. “You might’ve had a friend, if you’d only left him alone.”  
  
The horn honked again, longer and insistent.   
  
“I’ll sleep long and well tonight, I think,” he said. “And wake up where I belong. And you, Hannibal - you will wake up where you belong, too.”   
  
 _Alone_  hovered in the air between them. Will’s doppelganger was kind enough not to voice it. He turned his back on the good doctor and left with no farewell, only the barest acknowledgment of Hannibal’s continued presence in the room. The door did not quite close behind him, the wood too swollen to fit inside of the frame without force being applied. Hannibal sat at the table until the roar of a car engine had long since faded into the distance.   
  
He stood and gripped the door handle for a moment, considering his choice, then pressed the barrier fully closed and slid the deadbolt home.   
  
He was trapped between the sealed door and the gray, crashing sea, and thought suddenly of a day long ago when he had strolled down a narrow corridor with bars on either side to take stock of the final notch in his plan, so many months ago, when he had trapped Will in a cage of his own making. He had celebrated openly with the empath in sight, bars cutting through his features and doing nothing to cool the blazing hatred fanning from within the prison cell.   
  
It was little consolation to know that Will’s doppelganger, when given the same opportunity, had simply walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Thank you readers for your comments, they are always welcome. I have asked the original requestor if they want an epilogue with certain scenes, so you might see one more chapter depending on their preference.


	27. Epilogue

The first twenty minutes of the drive back toward Baltimore seemed awkward, but as time passed the awkwardness fell way until they were left with a comfortable silence which filled the car and left them both content and relaxed. Will occasionally glanced over at Abigail, who kept her gaze focused outside the window, where the world passed them by without judgment.   
  
At the hour, Abigail, still facing the window, asked in a quiet and subdued voice, “Where's Will?”  
  
Will, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead, said nothing for several minutes. When he finally spoke, he only said, “You shouldn't trust Hannibal. He's dangerous.”  
  
Abigail laughed, a quiet and hesitant sound. She couldn't quite wipe the smile from her face, but she did turn to face Will as she said, “I know. I've lived with him for a few months now, in case you forgot.”  
  
“I know,” Will said, “but it bears repeating.”  
  
Will Graham’s voice slipped away entirely at the end of the statement, leaving no semblance of the former in the being at her side. Abigail knew she should feel afraid, being stuck in a car with a complete stranger whose motivations were entirely foreign, but months in Hannibal’s care left her with a dull sort of numbness.   
  
The drive continued in comfortable silence again, and neither of them looked at each other for any reason. There was no reason to keep staring at each other as though the changes would occur before their very eyes. They both knew that any changes would be invisible to the naked eye, unless Hannibal himself were involved. The further away they traveled from the doctor, the more relaxed they became until Abigail finally reached to turn the music on.   
  
There was no classical station that she could find, and she wasn't looking for classical music anyway. She put something raucous, modern and obnoxious, exactly the type of music that Hannibal would forbid at the dinner table. They both smiled, and occasionally Abigail sang along even if she didn't know the words. She would make up her own phrases, matching her lilting voice to the melody rising from the radio. Will sometimes lended his own voice when he understood where she was going, and together they created an unlikely duet.   
  
Instead of fear, she felt safe and protected. The feeling, so long forgotten, made her drowsy, and she fought the urge to sleep the longer they drove until Will’s doppelganger turned the music low and adjusted the temperature of the air coming from the vents. With explicit permission to rest given, Abigail slipped away into a dreamless sleep.   
  
For a long time Will was at peace, following the signs pointing him back to Will Graham’s home and content to share his thoughts with only himself. When the lights of the city began to encroach on the darkness, he nudged the sleeping Abigail, who groggily turned her face forward so that she could watch civilization approach them. The expression on her face brightened, as though it were the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.  
  
"What will you do now?" Will asked. Abigail shrugged with one shoulder, all ambivalent dismissal. Inside her stomach churned.   
  
“Will Graham is there,” he said. “Avoid him as much as possible. Freddie Lounds is a better protector.”   
  
Abigail pursed her lips and kept her own counsel.   
  
“Alana will want to help you, too,” he said. “That decision is yours.”   
  
“I like Alana,” Abigail said.   
  
“You’re not as good at snowing her as you think you are,” Will said.   
  
“Who says I ever tried to?”   
  
Will chuckled and curled his lips upward. Abigail never tried; she couldn’t stop herself any more than Hannibal could. It was easy to forget that Abigail had grown up in dire conditions, with a father who avoided murdering and consuming her by doing the same to other young women instead.   
  
Abigail never forgot. She couldn’t afford to, and the approaching world wouldn’t allow her to anyway.   
  
"Will won't stay away," she said several minutes later. "He feels responsible."  
  
"He probably should," Will-not-Will said. "That doesn't put you in less danger. Hannibal Lecter has exactly one person he loves, and it's not you, Abigail."  
  
The words stung and she knew they shouldn't. She half-shrugged again, determined not to care.   
  
"That's for the best," she said. "I'm tired of old men wanting what's best for me."  
  
Will-not-Will laughed and she smiled. She'd intended the statement as an ironic tease aimed at herself, and was gratified that even if this man wasn't Will Graham, he shared some of the same humor.   
  
"I miss my mom," she said quietly, and the two of them sobered.   
  
"Have you ever admitted that out loud?" Will asked.   
  
"No," Abigail said. "I didn't have the right to miss her, right? If I'd just turned him in -"  
  
"What happened is not your fault," Will said. "Grown adults fall for Hannibal's schemes. You didn't stand a chance."  
  
"You never fell for it," Abigail said, watching him with wide, envious eyes.   
  
"Didn't I?" he asked.   
  
"You didn't seem to," Abigail said.   
  
"Fake it to make it," he said, and she sighed.   


* * *

  
  
He took her to his house because he didn't want to see anyone else. They were both tired, worn out from the constant mental gymnastics of the past two days and in no mood for one Jack, Alana or Freddie's interrogations.   
  
As he pulled closer to the house he cursed the land, the car, Hannibal and himself for not realizing that the house would be a roped off crime scene in the wake of their dual abduction. There wasn't a crowd but there was a lookout, and the moment Will's car came into view a young, impressionable-looking cop manifested from behind the house. He waved to the two of them as he radioed for backup or whatever else, and Will grumbled to himself.   
  
"At least it's not Jack," Abigail said. Will only shook his head.   
  
Within the hour everyone they'd ever known was headed in their direction, the little house in Wolf Trap serving as the magnet which drew unrelated elements together. It was a small mercy that Price arrived first. He took one look at both of them and merely shook Will's hand before getting to work elsewhere on the property. Will knew that he and Zeller had already gone through every square inch on the farm; Jimmy was merely doing the two of them a favor.  
  
He sent Abigail up for the first shower and guarded the stairs against intruders.  
  
Freddie came next, her frazzled hair and exhausted eyes a sign that she hadn't slept since their disappearance.   
  
"Worried?" Will asked as she stepped onto the porch.   
  
"Where is she?" Freddie said. Will pointed up the stairs and didn't bother trying to stop her. Freddie Lounds did exactly as she pleased, and he'd rather Abigail deal with her first. The experience would remind Abigail of what they were about to face together, and Freddie could prepare her for Jack's inevitable questions.   
  
Jack arrived last, and the two men barely looked at each other.   
  
"I guess this means you're quitting," Jack said.   
  
"Ask me tomorrow," Will said.   
  
By the time Alana faced him, he considered himself reasonably prepared for any questions. Alana looked him over head to toe, standing relaxed and calm on his porch, and asked:  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
Will blinked and glanced behind him, where Jack stood talked with jimmy, out of earshot.   
  
"I know who you're not," Alana said. "So who are you?"  
  
"Ask me tomorrow," Will said. "I'm not so sure I know right now."  


* * *

  
  
Abigail refused continuing treatment from Alana.  
  
Freddie refused to leave Abigail that night, and Will let her stay because he wanted her to hear what he had to say to the young woman.  
  
"I think you made the right decision," he said when the three of them were alone, picking at a microwave casserole Freddie had brought for them. The dogs circled the table warily, waiting for whatever scraps the humans would hand over. Abigail pat their heads and Freddie scratched their rears. Will ignored them for now.   
  
"I do too," Freddie said. "I can find you somewhere far away from all of these people, Abigail."  
  
"You're old enough to be an independent now," Will said. "You don't need Will's permission."  
  
“I’ll think about it,” Abigail said. She didn’t touch the casserole.   
  
As they approached an hour which required them to either admit defeat and go to bed or stay awake the full night, Abigail retired. Will and Freddie sat at the table alone, Will looking down at the dog’s head he was petting, Freddie looking at him.   
  
“You’re leaving tonight?” she asked.  
  
“Yes,” he said. “I’m ready to go home.”   
  
“Where is home?” Freddie was all reporter as she asked, bright interest masked by a stoic, compassionate expression. Will smiled at her and said nothing.   
  
“Fine,” she huffed. “Safe travels, I suppose. I can’t say I’m glad I met you.”   
  
He hesitated, pulled his hand from the dog’s ears. He chewed at his bottom lip and worried over consequences. And then he damned them.   
  
“Freddie,” he said lowly, “ _do not_  trust Will Graham. Not ever again. He might set you an interview, when...when a certain murderer shows up, to catch him.” He felt like a terrible oracle, giving just enough to make sense one second too late, but he liked her enough to try.   
  
“I have a job to do,” she said, and he sighed and pet the dog’s head again. She left in another ten minutes, the silence finally awkward enough to drive her away, and he laid down in the bed set up in the den.   
  
All of the warnings he knew to give were given. With hope, trepidation and a healthy dollop of skepticism, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I've had a blast!


End file.
